Side of the Angels
by pindergast
Summary: After Sherlock's 'death', John is trying to put all the pieces back together. But during an unlikely investigation, he learns the truth behind the suicide of the 'fake genius'...and it's not at all what he expected. Rated T for language and some violence. *Sequel to Armageddon*
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! Before we begin, I would like to mention that I would ****_highly_**** suggest reading ****_Armageddon_****, a one-shot I wrote not too long ago that acts as a prequel to this story. If you do not, the first few chapters of this will be very confusing. Just a thought:)**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy:**

* * *

**Side of the Angels**

**Chapter 1**

~On the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital~

_I don't have to die... if I've got you._

_Oh! You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?_

_Yes. So do you._

_Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to._

_Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you._

_Naah. You talk big. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels._

_Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them._

_…_

_No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out._

_…_

_Well, good luck with that._

_-The Reichenbach Fall_

* * *

-_Two Weeks After the Fall-_

John wasn't exactly keeping track of time. He figured it had been a couple weeks since Sherlock's death, only because of Mrs. Hudson's frequent visits. She came up to check on him every so often, just to be sure he was alright.

But of course, he wasn't. His best friend had fallen to his death. There was no other way to go about it.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

John knew Sherlock more than anyone else. In fact, his supposed suicide note was directly given to _him_. It was out of character for Sherlock to be so…sentimental—but he _did_ say that his sociopathic nature was just an act.

But, as John already knew, he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. He knew Sherlock's true nature. And it was certainly sociopathic. High-functioning, at that.

John refused to believe that Sherlock's entire identity was set up. It was all Richard Brooke—no, Jim Moriarty. He was the one who ruined Sherlock.

He didn't know how he came to this conclusion. Perhaps he had too much faith in his friend.

John was sure of this much, but even with his theory, he couldn't do anything about it. The media jumped on the 'fake genius' bit, and there was no point in trying to quell the rumors. Even if he could bring this information to the public's attention, he doesn't have any evidence to substantiate his claim. John cringed at the thought of Sherlock remaining as London's most notorious con artist.

So, he let it go. There was nothing to be done.

* * *

After Sherlock's death, John continued to live in 221B. It had become his home over the many months he spent here. The thought of leaving was more agonizing than staying—living—with Sherlock's ghost.

Most everything had been left the way it was, save a few family sentiments, which were given to Mycroft. Some of Sherlock's possessions were distributed to his various acquaintances—Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly.

The chessboard was still there, collecting dust.

Even after two weeks, John was trying to ignore it. He had noticed that one of the white pieces—Sherlock's pieces—had moved. However, he dismissed as a trick of the mind. It was impossible.

Eventually, he became so stressed over his impending insanity that he moved the chess set into Sherlock's old bedroom and carefully placed it in the closet. He wasn't going to allow it to enter his mind and infiltrate his memories. He was already going mad.

Though the board was out of sight, he couldn't help thinking about it, even as he mourned. He held onto it, as though it was the last connection he had with his best friend.

The white rook was absolutely bewildering; John had sworn that it had been on the other side of the board prior to Sherlock's death. It couldn't have been accidentally shifted, being that the chess pieces were magnetic.

John searched through the farthest corners of his mind, his memories, to replay the most recent game in his head, recounting each move. He had finally gotten the hang of the game-play, so he had a much better understanding of just about everything. He could recognize the various strategies Sherlock used, which he took note of. His memory of the game had improved significantly.

John did this for days, mostly to distract himself from the grief. But a part of him was incredibly curious. His theory of Moriarty's true identity, the chess piece—they somehow went together, but he didn't know how. This sort of thing required Sherlock's skills of deduction.

As he seemed to do with everything lately, John let it go. It was too far-fetched. There was no point in pursuing the matter further.

* * *

John actually checked the calendar one morning, realizing that it had been exactly two weeks since the Fall. He felt himself entering the five stages of grief, which was expected. He was trying to return to a normal life after the initial mourning. He barely spoke to anyone, and refused to have visitors. Stage once: denial.

Despite his realization, he went to the kitchen to make some tea. As the water was boiling, he pulled out an English muffin and sliced it in half—his usual breakfast.

Once he began steeping his tea, he spread a pat of butter on one half of the English muffin. On the other half, he would have honey.

As he reached into the cupboard to grab the honey, he stopped, his hand suspended in the air. The container holding the honey was transparent, displaying the golden substance inside. It was eerily similar to something…something that he had seen before.

_Of course. My God, John, you're such an idiot sometimes._

He left his half-made breakfast to sit on the counter and rushed to Sherlock's room.

_I see that bloody thing every day. Why didn't I notice?!_

Once inside, he recovered the chessboard from the closet and set it on the bed. He grabbed the white king and hastily removed the magnetic disk on the bottom. While Sherlock was still alive, he found a vial hidden within this piece, which contained a mysterious substance: grayanotoxin, which resembled honey. It wasn't until John looked inside that he realized that it had disappeared after he died.

_After he died…_

John dwelled on this, repeating it over and over.

_After he died…after Sherlock died…after he died…after…_

Sherlock obviously knew about the vial, since he found the disk misplaced on more than one occasion, as if he was constantly checking to see if it was still there. But…

_It went missing after he died…after…_

_No…before…before he died…_

Sherlock had to have removed the vial before he died. No one entered the flat that day besides the two of them. Why would Sherlock take the vial that day…the day that happened to be the day he committed suicide?

John needed to find out what this 'grayanotoxin' actually was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Side of the Angels**

**Chapter 2**

While he worked as an army doctor, John didn't have to necessarily learn the fundamentals of drug addiction or how to recover. He figured that grayanotoxin was some sort of medication for Sherlock's problem, courtesy of Mycroft.

But he wasn't completely satisfied with this answer anymore. Not after everything that happened.

He had to ask someone…someone who would be familiar with this sort of thing. It also had to be someone he knew, who he trusted enough to divulge information to, if the need should arise.

Before he could finish his breakfast, John grabbed his coat and left Baker Street.

* * *

John had been out a few times since the Fall, but only to get a few essentials. He hadn't made an effort to engage in any social interaction, even at the funeral. Taking a cab to St. Bart's was certainly a step back into normalcy.

It didn't take him long to find Molly Hooper, the pathologist Sherlock would work with on a few cases. She seemed to be finishing an examination when John entered the morgue, since she was removing a pair of latex gloves. John noted her concerned, perhaps bewildered expression. When she heard the footsteps behind her, she whipped around, obviously startled. She gave him a warm, endearing smile once she had realized who it was.

"John! Oh, it's so nice to see you…" she ran up to him pulled him into an embrace, which John gladly accepted. He hadn't had much interaction with anyone. He chose to remain isolated.

"Hello, Molly," he grinned. "Did I interrupt…?"

"No, no. I was just finishing up. How are you? I haven't seen you."

"Yeah, I've just been…alright. I'm feeling alright. You?"

"Better. But I guess everything is back to normal around here. So, what brings you to Bart's?"

"I wanted to ask you something. This might be an odd question—"

"Dr. Hooper! I—I can't figure this out. Could you come here for a sec?" called a voice from the other room, interrupting John's inquiry.

"I'll be right there!" Molly called back. She saw John's puzzled expression and clarified for him, "He's new—working as an intern to get some college credits. I think he's trying to write up a report. I better go check on him. I'll be right back. So sorry," she smiled apologetically and hurried into the other room.

John nodded as she left. Once Molly closed the door, John was alone in the morgue. He had been here a few times, but it was usually just to accompany Sherlock.

He looked over to the black body bag on one of the slabs. He saw a pair of feet protruding from one end, and a head at the other; there was a body inside. It made John shudder involuntarily.

_Come on, what would you expect in a morgue? _

But why was Molly so…disturbed after examining it? John began to walk over the body before stopping to think.

_What the hell are you doing?_

He turned around to look at the room Molly had entered. The door was still closed, and he could hear their muffled conversation.

Ignoring his conscience, John continued over to the bag. Perhaps spending so much time with Sherlock Holmes left him with an acute sense of curiosity.

He pulled his sleeve over his hand and took the zipper in between his fingers. Slowly and quietly, he opened the back, just to reveal the body's face.

It was a man, maybe in his mid-thirties. Nothing particularly astounding about him. There could have been plenty of explanations for Molly's distress. Perhaps she knew him.

John was just about to close the bag, but something caught his eye from the side furthest from him—a hint, a sliver of crimson.

He leaned over to see what it was, but it left more questions than answers. On the side of the man's face, there was a sort of inscription carved into the flesh.

'_IV'_

His brow furrowed. The writing was obviously done post-mortem, John could tell that much. But 'IV'? It could have been a number of things—initials, 'intravenous', numerals…

John's thought were interrupted but the sound of a door opening. John whipped his head around to find that Molly was standing in the doorway of the other room, keeping the door partially open; she was still speaking to the intern, but was preparing to leave. John quietly zipped up the bag and scuttled over to a chair, close to where she had left him.

He positioned himself in a casual position and waited for Molly. She gave a few more tips to the intern before leaving him to it. She closed the door and sat on a stool across from John.

"Sorry about that," she said, sounding somewhat frustrated.

"No worries."

"Now, what did you want to talk about?"

John shifted uncomfortable in his seat. "I was wondering…have you ever heard of…gray—grayanotoxin?" he purposely stuttered.

Molly seemed to twitch nervously, just for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, as if she was trying to remember. John, however, got the feeling—just the slightest feeling—that she was…acting.

"Uh, yeah. Grayanotoxin? It's a poison."

_Poison? But…that doesn't make sense. Why would Sherlock have…_

John gulped. "You mean, like, lethal…"

Molly paused. "Yeah, well, depending on the dosage," she nodded her head, as if to say something, but she couldn't speak aloud.

Sherlock kept all sorts of odd substances around the flat, but for experiments. And it's not like they were any great secret. Why would he keep the vial so well hidden?

Then again, Mycroft was the one who gave the chess set to Sherlock. Did he place it in the white king? If so…

John's thoughts were interrupted. He must have had a confused look on his face, since Molly asked him if he wanted some more information on it. He accepted, and Molly went to a filing cabinet in her adjacent office.

As she rifled through a series of files, she called from the office, "Why are you so interested in this stuff anyway? Seems a bit…I dunno…out-of-character."

John laughed, "I'm a doctor, Molly. I had to deal with all sorts of drugs and…" John trailed off, considering her first question.

_Should I tell her?_

It wasn't like he had tons of evidence or information. In fact, he didn't even know what he was gathering information about. The grayanotoxin, yes, but what else? What would this lead to?

_Nothing. That's what._

"I—I'm working on a case with Lestrade, and I just needed some more information," he told her as she came back with the correct file.

_Why are you lying? There's nothing to lie about!_

Molly, however, had a look of understanding on her face. Surprised, John pressed further.

"What, you're not surprised?"

"Of course not. I expected nothing less. But the grayanotoxin?" She added as she handed him the file.

John flipped through the few papers inside, all with complicated descriptions, structures, and diagrams.

"What about the grayanotoxin?"

"It's just…oh, never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about," she waved her hand to dismiss herself.

"So, you keep this sort of thing in the morgue?" asked John, referring to the file.

"No. Well, I do. I like to stay organized—keep everything for…future reference," she shrugged.

John flashed an impressed smile. "Do you mind if I keep this for a bit? I might need to reference back to it."

"Sure. Keep it as long as you like. We don't get many grayanotoxin victims—"she began to casually laugh, but stopped, like her statement's truth had just come to light.

* * *

After the usual farewells, John left with the file under his arm.

_Come on, John. What are you doing? This is ridiculous._

John decided to walk, but in the opposite direction of Baker Street. He had to figure this out, but it was fruitless. What would he accomplish from all of this?

_Maybe that's just it. Maybe I don't need to feel accomplished. But _he _does._

After a few minutes, John found himself at the steps of the Diogenes Club.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John had only visited the Diogenes Club once, and it wasn't the most…pleasant experience. But he knew that if he wanted answers, he would have to speak with Mycroft Holmes. And if he wanted to speak with Mycroft Holmes, this was John's best chance.

When he entered the Club, he hastily (and quietly) scuttled out of the first room, where a group of older gentlemen sat, reading books and newspapers. He remembered his previous visit and walked down a familiar hallway, where, he hoped, would lead to Mycroft's office.

After turning several corners, asking for assistance, and getting lost on more than one occasion, he reached his destination.

John went to knock on the door with his knuckle, but he was interrupted by a voice coming from the office, his hand suspended in mid-air.

"Come in," the voice droned.

John sighed and continued into the room. He found Mycroft looking through a file, but he quickly put it in his desk drawer before John could see it more closely. As he removed his reading glasses, he looked up, "Dr. Watson. What an…unexpected surprise," he said sarcastically.

"Good to see you, too," John sighed.

Mycroft ignored his comment and motioned for him to sit in a chair across from himself. His eyes drifted to the manila folder John held under his arm. He looked at John inquisitively.

"What brings you here?"

"Well…" he began, slapping the folder on the desk and motioning towards it.

Mycroft opened the folder to look at its contents. He rose his eyebrows (John suspected that it was involuntary, since he quickly returned to his 'you're an idiot and I'm not' face).

John broke the silence. "I want to know _why_ _on Earth_ you sent this to _your brother_! And in a chess set of all things!" he snapped.

"No need to yell. I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. However, I must say…I'm impressed. The grayanotoxin was well hidden, as was my note. And you managed to find both."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a moron, as everyone seems to think…" John muttered. "So what's this 'reasonable explanation'?"

"Grayanotoxin, while a poison, can be chemically altered to act as methadone, a drug prescribed to treat addiction, which, as you know, Sherlock needed."

"Is that so?" he asked skeptically. "Then, why doesn't it say that in the file?"

"We don't know how accurate this is."

"No. We don't. But I think you've forgotten something, Mycroft."

"Really?" he closed the file and folded his hands on the desk.

"I'm a doctor. I've worked with this sort of thing. I may not be an _expert_ in drug addiction, but I sure know a hell of a lot about pain killers. You _can't_ just take a _poison_ and turn it into a medication! Tell me the truth, Mycroft."

Mycroft paused, evidently debunked. "Why are you so curious?"

John thought about this. Honestly, he didn't have an answer. "Doesn't matter."

Mycroft paused again.

_He won't tell me so easily._ _I'll start somewhere else, then. Let's see if I can interrogate a Holmes brother._

* * *

"If you're not going to talk about the poison, why don't you tell me about the chess set? It's an odd method of delivery, even for you."

"I decided it was an appropriate gift, for the situation," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't you agree?" he added smugly.

"And the note on the bottom? I'm assuming you were referring to Sherlock's encounter with Moriarty."

"Correct."

"But it was in French. I may not speak a lick of French, but I know how to use a computer. You knew that if someone found the note, it would be perfectly easy to translate."

"The purpose of the chosen dialect was not to conceal the message—"he paused.

"No. It wasn't." John laughed internally. "This is so…typical of you two. The message wasn't the only encryption. The French _itself_ was a message as well…signaling a particular action, phrase, etc. Genius…"

Mycroft sighed. "A very sound conclusion, Dr. Watson. But what was the internal message? I highly doubt you can figure that out."

"Well, based on all other exchanges between the two of you, this one was unlike any other. You always spoke or wrote in English. At one point, I believe I found a German letter to Sherlock." Mycroft nodded at this. "Then here's French. Out of the blue. So what does it mean? Obviously, it's one set aside for…" John stopped, contemplating.

"…_Emergencies."_

Mycroft perked his head up at this, apparently taken aback by John's deductive skills.

John smiled at the reaction. He was right.

"If the note, chess set, and the grayanotoxin all go together…then what was the purpose of the grayanotoxin? Care to tell me now?"

"I'm impressed, Dr. Watson. I didn't know that you had picked up so much from my brother. But, I'm afraid you've neglected to address something," he smiled mockingly.

"What's that? Because I think I already know. You've had this look on your face ever since I mentioned the chessboard. You know something that I don't. There's something about the chess set…something I didn't notice."

Mycroft looked down, trying to hide his expression.

"And I bet I can find out what it is. I just have to look over at that." He nodded his towards the corner of the room, where a table surrounded by a few chairs was situated. Placed at the center of the dark, mahogany table was a chessboard—identical to the one in 221B.

Mycroft didn't turn around. He knew what John was referring to. The one Sherlock had received was an exact replica of the one in his office.

"I noticed it immediately after I walked in. You obviously didn't prepare for my arrival enough..."

Mycroft finally turned in his chair to face the chessboard behind him, contemplating.

"Well, you've obviously figured it out. However, I'm not going to tell you its secret."

"I didn't expect you to."

"You're not finished, are you?"

"Almost there," John smiled. Just as he was about to continue, John's phone beeped. He rolled his eyes as he checked what it was. Lestrade had texted him:

_Drop by Scotland Yard tomorrow, around 10. Need your help. – Lestrade_

John frowned. _That was unexpected._

"What's the date?" John asked Mycroft.

"The third of November. Why?"

"Huh? Oh, er…nothing. Just…have—have there been any…cases…lately?"

Mycroft bowed his head in disbelief. "John…"

"Look, back to—"

"You haven't been reading the papers, have you?"

"Wh—what does that have to with anything?"

"Before we continue our…discussion, I would suggest catching up with the rest of the world."

Mycroft rose from his desk and took his umbrella from its stand. "I'll see you out."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John spent most of the day replaying his conversation with Mycroft, picking and dwelling at any details he may have missed. There had to be some meaning, some answers behind everything they talked about. He began to write down everything he knew thus far.

_Mycroft gave the poison to Sherlock_

_The chessboard was only used to deliver it?_

_*Molly had easy access to information on grayanotoxin_

_*There's more to the chessboard_

_Sherlock knew about the toxin_

_Note in French was a code_

John stared at his insufficient list. He couldn't make too many conclusions based on this. But he could make a few:

At least three people knew about the toxin besides John—Sherlock, Mycroft, and Molly. John was still somewhat unsure about Molly, but it was a sound hypothesis. She had a very thorough file on the toxin, and on something she wouldn't encounter too often. Then the way she looked at him, like she knew something, and she was helping him as much as she could to figure it out himself.

Mycroft and Sherlock had made some sort of arrangement, or maybe insurance, involving the toxin, and they couldn't let anyone know about it. That's why they hid it so well. But it had to be easily accessible…in case of an emergency.

_But what kind of 'emergency' did they have in mind?_

John could only think of one, but…_no, that's insane. And besides, he fell, he didn't…_

He would have to figure that out later.

* * *

John had done enough deducing. Further investigation would have to wait.

_Oh…wait…maybe not._

He grabbed his laptop and searched for the local news online. Without much difficulty, he found some news article from the past few days. The recurring headlines were the ones that caught his eye.

_"Police Suspect Serial Killer is Responsible for Recent Homicides."_

_"Two More Murders are Suspected Victims of _Caesar._" _

_"Citizens of London Are Eager for _Caesar's _Arrest."_

_"How Long Will _Caesar's _Reign Last?"_

John read through article after article about this _Caesar _serial killer with a bewildered, yet horrified glare. How could he go two weeks without hearing about this? Then again, this isn't the first serial killer London has seen in the last century. John didn't know how to react. It was horrible, of course, but…he wasn't surprised.

This is probably what Lestrade wanted to meet with him about. One of the victims must have stumped them—actually, maybe all of them have.

John figured he would have to do _something_ with his time besides sitting here idly. He wasn't going to make much more progress with the grayanotoxin anyway.

At this thought, John perked up, remembering the chessboard. Forgetting about the serial killings, he ran into Sherlock's bedroom and retrieved the chessboard from the closet. Once it was set on the bed, he examined every inch of it—the pieces, the checkered pattern, the woodwork, everything. He searched for any hidden switches, secret compartments, more messages. But after nearly ten minutes of inspection, he couldn't find anything. Maybe Mycroft was leading him down the wrong path.

_Am I missing something? I must be. Even Sherlock missed things from time to time. I'm looking for something that isn't there. Something…_

Frustrated, he left the chessboard on the bed and walked out, tired of it all.

_God, is this how Sherlock always felt? _

He made himself a cup of tea when he realized it was already 4 o'clock. He figured he should relax, forget about everything. He hadn't updated his blog in a while…

John found his laptop on his chair, still on. He closed all of the articles and went to his blog. As the page was loading, his eyes wandered to the digital clock in the corner of the screen. It read _3:06 PM_.

His brow furrowed. Was his watch wrong? He looked down at his wristwatch, which read _4:06 PM._ How could it be an hour off? He glanced at the clock on his computer again, underneath which was the date, November 3.

_Oh._

Daylight savings ends today. All of the clocks are turned back one hour—the computer does this automatically, but his watch does not. He reset his watch to read _3:06 PM_. At least he had more time to work on his blog.

* * *

John wrote about his dealings after Sherlock's death, mostly discussing his recent findings with the grayanotoxin. Nothing like his previous posts about their cases together. He sighed at this realization.

He closed his laptop when he was done and set it back on the table. He was just about to rise from his chair when his phone beeped again.

He pulled out his phone from his pocket and read the text from Lestrade.

_On second thought, come now, if that's alright. – Lestrade_

His phone beeped a second time, this time revealing an address and specific location. John looked at his (accurate) watch. It was just after 4 o'clock. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do.

It was an easy decision. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

_A serial killer in London and Sherlock Holmes isn't here to crack the case…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

At about 4:30, John arrived at the address Lestrade had sent him. He found the crime scene easily, as the police were still there. It was an alley tucked between a vacant office building and a local delicatessen—the sort of thing you pass by without giving much thought. The alley led to a dead end and a dumpster, and to either side was a doorway to the adjacent buildings.

Most of the officers recognized John, going off on the regular sympathies and such. Eventually, Lestrade spotted him and jogged over to greet him.

"John! Thanks for coming…"

"No problem. I'm glad to—help…" he glanced over to the scene before them, which wasn't the most pleasant.

"If you don't mind, let's skip the formalities."

"Sure, but, I wanted to ask…why did you call me?"

"Well, you've heard of Caesar, right?"

"Yeah. Is that what this is about?"

Lestrade nodded. "Serial killers are tricky. Unlike the others, they know what they're doing. It's their…career," he shuddered involuntarily. "The bodies are piling up, and we haven't made much progress. So, we thought…well, _I_ thought…"

"You don't have the _real_ consulting detective and I'm the next best thing," John finished for him, and Lestrade nodded. "But Sherlock…"

Lestrade pulled John away from the commotion and out of earshot. "You don't actually believe what he said, do you?"

"You were the one who nearly had him arrested!" John stage-whispered.

"Donovan was suspicious, and for a while, I was, too. But it's _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ we're talking about."

"So you think that everything was real, then?"

"Definitely," he raised his hands as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Good. I thought I was the only one," John smiled.

* * *

Lestrade led them under the barricade tape and into the alley as he assured the other officers the John was cleared. John put on a pair of latex gloves and removed his coat, and Lestrade did the same.

John began to examine the crime scene, walking around the body's immediate radius to get a better view. It looked like any other murder: the body was propped up against the brick wall, the vacant building. From what he could see, he was stabbed twice in the chest, the wounds close together—the killer was aiming, so it wasn't mindless. His right hand was covered in blood, which means he was alive for just a few seconds, clutching is chest or trying to stop the bleeding. There was a red streak just above his head, so he was standing when he was stabbed and slid down. Nothing seemed to out-of-the-ordinary, for a crime scene.

John shrugged and turned to Lestrade. "Anything I say will already have been solved by you guys."

"You haven't seen half of it," Lestrade said. "Look at his right arm," he tilted his head towards the body.

John knelt down beside the victim and examined his arm. In the crook of his elbow, a shape was engraved in the flesh:

_V_

He immediately remembered the body in the morgue with a similar carving of '_IV'_. That one had to have been another victim of Caesar—

"Is he called Caesar because he uses Roman numerals?"

Lestrade looked at John inquisitively. "How'd you know it was a Roman numeral?"

Oh. He wasn't supposed to see the other body. "Lucky guess."

Lestrade seemed to accept this. "Well, that's not the only reason. The numerals mark the victim's chronological position. His first victim was marked with an _I_, his second with _II_, and so on. Not sure why. But that's not why we call him Caesar. That's what he calls himself." He called over to the forensic team and asked for a 'card'. Within a few seconds, Anderson came over with a plastic bag containing a piece of paper.

"He's been leaving these with his victims," he said as he handed John the bag.

John carefully turned it over in his hands to examine it. It was a relatively small piece of parchment, tattered and worn at the edges, and stained brown with apparent age—it looked at least 100 years old. The writing was in Latin, yet another language John didn't know. But the penmanship itself was calligraphic, intricately embellished with small illuminations. Whoever did this wanted it to look authentic.

This must have been some sort of calling card. Serial killers use these to get attention. It's like they become famous while remaining anonymous. They can also reveal the criminal's motive, but not very often. In this case, he wanted to be in character. John assumed he was impersonating Julius Caesar.

"Did you get a translation?" John asked.

"Yeah. Here, see for yourself."

He handed him another piece of notebook paper from his pocket. Someone had handwritten a translation.

_My name is Caesar. I was brutally assassinated by the Roman Senators I trusted, the Liberators, all these centuries ago, before the Empire fell into ruin. They betrayed me. They betrayed their country. Now, I will seek revenge on those who wronged me, who deserve death in this new incarnation. My Empire will rise once more, and I will be its emperor! _

Thought it wasn't very appropriate, John laughed. "So, this guy is pretending to be the ghost of Caesar?"

"That's what we've gathered, yes, as ridiculous as it is. The other four notes just describe why the victim had to die, nothing decisive. His motives must be personal, but he's using the character of Caesar to…I don't know, make it more dramatic," Lestrade shrugged.

John nodded in agreement, but he wasn't sold on this.

_The ghost of Caesar? He must be a nut. But…this is so well done…the entire scene, the note, the character. He must have his reasons._

"Anything else?"

"There weren't any witnesses, but the owner of the deli was the one who found the body. Want to talk to him?"

"No. I doubt we'll get anything from them." John was still scrutinizing the body, searching for any details he'd missed. "Who is this guy? Any identification?"

"His name was James Leza. 41. Worked for some sort of insurance company. Nothing on record that would lead to…this."

"Time of death?"

"Between 1 and 2 AM. Can't be sure."

"November 3rd?"

"Yep. I wanted to get you down here before they took the body to the morgue."

John nodded. There _really_ wasn't anything unusual. But there had to be something he was overlooking.

_It's just like the chessboard. It's staring me right in the face and I don't see it._

He left the alley and stood by one of the police cars. On the other side of the street, a few officers were talking to some civilian, probably the one who found the body. Lestrade soon walked up behind John and stood next to him.

"Well?"

"Lestrade, I honestly don't know why you called me down here. I can't give you any more information than you already…have…"

_Staring me right in the face, huh?_

John looked at his watch. 4:48 PM. November 3rd.

"Does that owner guy have an alibi?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?"

"I think I'll talk to him after all…"

* * *

John politely asked the two officers to let him talk to the owner. He was an average man, mid-forties. He was still dressed in work clothes—a plain white shirt, jeans, and an apron.

"Mr. Delgado?" John asked. Lestrade had already told him his name.

"Yeah? You another cop?" he glared.

John held out his hand. "Dr. Watson. I'm a…consultant."

"Look, are you just gonna ask more bloody questions?" John noted that he had a thick accent—Manchester.

"Just a few. Now, at what time did you discover the body?"

"Around 2 in the morning."

"What were you doing?"

"I was closing up. Taking out the trash when I found the guy."

"Your shop closes at two in the morning?"

"No. I have to prep the bread till one. I had to get some more ingredients from the store, and I was coming back when I saw him in the alley."

"You just said that you were taking out the trash."

Delgado paused, remembering what he had said.

John broke the silence. "Well, it was obviously the latter, since I don't see any trash bags in the alley."

"Give me a break, here, mate. I'm stressed out."

"Are you? Because, to me, at least, you seem to be taking the whole situation very well, considering…"

Delgado had nothing to say to this, so John just continued.

"Is this the story you told those officers?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have any proof?"

"I had a receipt, but they took it as evidence or something," he pointed in the general direction of the police.

John turned to the police and motioned to Lestrade for him to come over.

"Yes?" Lestrade asked as soon as he reached them.

"Mr. Delgado told me that he has a receipt, confirming his whereabouts. Mind if I have a look?"

Lestrade nodded and called for one of the officers to bring it over.

"You think I had something to do with all this?" Delgado asked, apparently getting angry.

"I don't want to accuse you of anything…yet. I just want some confirmation."

Anderson came back with the receipt in another plastic bag and handed it to John.

John immediately searched for the time stamp. _1:26 AM_.

_Gotcha._ _Mr. Delgado, you have some explaining to do._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_"The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."_

_-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

"Mr. Delgado, could you repeat your account of the discovery to the detective inspector?"

"John," Lestrade whispered, "I've already heard it."

"Yes, I know. Mr. Delgado?"

He seemed to shift uncomfortably, sensing John's suspicion. "Well, like I said, I was here until about 1…1:15 in the morning prepping the bread for tomorrow. I realized that I didn't have quite enough flour, so I went to pick it up. The 24 hour-shop I always go to is on the other side of town, so it took a while. I came back and found the body around 2 AM. And you already saw the proof," he finished, referring to the receipt.

"And what's wrong with that?" Lestrade asked.

"Mr. Delgado," John began, ignoring Lestrade, "are you aware that daylight savings ended today?"

His eyes rolled. "_Damn_. I forgot. Thanks for reminding me," he looked down to his watch and went to adjust it to the appropriate time.

"So you forgot?"

"It's not exactly something I mark on the calendar," he scoffed.

"Interesting," John muttered as he took the receipt from Lestrade's hands. "Do you know at what time the clocks turn back?"

"What are you getting at, John?" Lestrade asked.

"All of the clocks that set themselves automatically—computers, cell phones—go back an hour at 2:00 AM. So, _technically_, the first hour of the morning repeats itself. On November 3rd, there are two 1:26…AMs," stuttered, unsure of how else to word it. "That's the time stamp on this receipt. Those sorts of time stamps change automatically. So, the question is..."

"Which one is it referring to…" Lestrade finished, dumbfounded.

"Actually, no. Since you forgot that this was today, you didn't turn your clocks back. You _did _leave at 1:15. Lestrade, at what time—according to your clocks, which change automatically, mind you—did you get the call and arrive?"

"Er…I dunno…10 after…2," he replied thoughtfully, beginning to catch on.

"You found the body according to _your _2 o'clock, Mr. Delgado. But in real time, it was still 1 o'clock. There's a one-hour discrepancy between your account and the police's. So tell me, Mr. Delgado, what were you doing in this one-hour gap?"

Delgado stood with the same bewildered expression as Lestrade. John's deduction was flawless. There was one hour Delgado completely left out of his story. He didn't have an alibi anymore.

"I—I, er…I must have…I must have…" he looked at his watch nervously, trying to find some fault in John's accusation.

Lestrade stepped in. "Mr. Delgado, if you could step this way…we'd like to take you to the station for further questioning…I think there's more to your story than you're willing to tell."

Shortly afterwards, Delgado was taken back to Scotland Yard for an informal interrogation. After they left, Lestrade pulled John aside.

"That was brilliant, John, absolutely brilliant!" he exclaimed. "You know, maybe you should call yourself a consulting detective."

John smiled politely. He had certainly surprised himself with his…mini-interrogation. Maybe he _could_ do this. Dr. John Watson, M.D. Consulting Detective.

_Still the only one in the world…_

* * *

By the time John returned to Baker Street, it was already dark. Exhausted, he lounged back on his bed, overwhelmed by the day's events. He uncovered so much information…he wondered how Sherlock kept his sanity—

_Well…_

He did know, however, that it wasn't over. Aside from his curiosity, he wanted…he needed to know what the hell was going on. Not just with Caesar, but with Sherlock and Mycroft as well. The answers were within his reach.

Replaying the information in his head, John slowly slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

John awoke to a loud, echoing thud coming from downstairs. As he rubbed his eyes, still groggy from sleep, the knocking continued. He turned his head to the clock on his nightstand. It read 11:46 AM, but he hadn't changed this clock, so it was 10:46.

The knocking grew increasingly louder, and from what he could tell, the visitor was growing impatient. He stood, finding that he was still in his clothes from last night.

He opened his door and yelled downstairs, "Coming!"

The visitor stopped knocking, and John stumbled down the stairs. When he opened the door, the unexpected (and unwelcome) ray of sudden light blinded John after his hours in the dark. He held up his hand to shield his eyes and opened the door further to let his visitor step inside. As he closed the door, he turned his head to see who it was. His jaw must have dropped halfway to the floor.

"Oh, stop it." she rolled her eyes, obviously annoyed.

John remained silent.

"I just wanted to see my little brother again. Is that a crime?" Harry argued, slurring her words.

John hadn't seen Harriet in months. Last he heard, she had divorced her wife, Clara, but had stopped drinking after her time as an alcoholic. They rarely contacted each other, preferring to avoid the other's company, though Harry sometimes commented on his blog. Even as children they didn't get along too well. They eventually grew apart, and communication was minimal.

Now, standing before him, John noticed that she didn't looking significantly different—or perhaps he didn't remember her appearance very well. She resembled John so much that anyone else would guess that they were fraternal twins. Her hair is still mouse brown (just as John had once had), hanging just below her shoulders, but a few grey tendrils were barely visible. Her clothes and hair were slightly disheveled, as if she had quickly tried to fix them. John could smell the lingering scent of alcohol and concluded that she was drinking recently.

"Did you drive here?" John asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Yeah. So?"

John sighed. "Harry, you're drunk."

"Well, everyone else was being really nice about it on the road," she smirked.

John led her into the flat and sat her down, but she immediately flopped on her back, lounging with her arm hanging over the side of the sofa. John sat in a chair across from her.

"Nice place," Harry drawled, lazily examining the room. She turned her head to John, who was scowling.

"I thought you stopped drinking," he scolded.

Even in her inebriated state, John saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes, a tear welling up.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

John must have looked incredulous, since Harry rolled her eyes again. "You're the only family I have left…and based on the newspapers, I'm all you have left, too."

He was about to retort, but she kept talking.

"My friend…my best friend—he…he…" she choked, putting her hand to her mouth. "He…died… yesterday," she sobbed.

John knelt down by her side, placing a sympathetic hand on her arm.

"You just need to rest—"

"He _died_ yesterday! You know what it's like, John! Tell me what you did when that detective friend of yours offed himself…did _you..._?!" she yelled, mocking him.

John pulled his arm down. "Look, I'm sorry about your friend, but if you came here just to yell at me—"

"His name was James Leza," she nearly whispered, like she knew that it would trigger a reaction, one she couldn't expect.

John blinked and gasped silently.

_James Leza? But…_

"I know you're part of the investigation," she said quietly as tears began to roll down her cheek. "They called me and asked me a few questions about him. They said that you had arrested the suspect…or something like that."

_He was one of Caesar's victims. The one I investigated yesterday…the one Delgado was questioned about. Why would a serial killer target _him_?_

"I—I didn't know—I didn't know that you knew him…" he stammered.

"Shut up," she scoffed as she turned her head to the ceiling, closing her eyes.

John bit his lip. "Look…I don't mean to be…insensitive…but the police were right. I'm working with them to catch this guy. Can you tell me what you told them?"

Harry sniffled. "No."

"Harry…"

"I'm going to tell you _the truth_."

John stared at her inquisitively, his brow furrowed. "You—you lied to the police? Harry, that's illegal."

"I know. I just—I didn't know if I should tell someone who I didn't trust. I came here to tell _you_."

He didn't believe her. She was drunk, unaware of what she was saying…

"On record, it says that he works for an insurance company. But he told me once…he said…well, I don't remember _exactly _what he said. But I know he wasn't telling the truth."

"You know, that sort of thing is hard to forge."

"I don't know how he did it. I just know that he did. He would talk about his job sometimes with me—stuff he had to do. He never told me what it was for, where it was…anything.

"But sometimes, I would catch him talking to himself. Sounded like he was nervous about something. Every so often, he would mention the name 'Brooks'. Does that ring any bells?"

John made an odd sort of noise in the back of his throat, so quiet that it was only audible to him.

_Oh my God…_

* * *

Not long after this revelation, Harry fell asleep. John suspected that she had been drinking all night over the death of her friend.

He let her rest on the sofa while he tried to work everything out. When Harry mentioned Brooks, he instantly thought of Richard Brooks, Moriarty's alias…or was Moriarty the alias? John still hadn't solved this much, but he certainly knew who Harry was talking about. It couldn't be anyone else. He wouldn't have to keep it such a secret if it wasn't.

As he made a cup of tea for the two of them, his eyes glanced over the manila folder still on the coffee table. He made a mental note to give it back to Molly soon.

When he sat down, his phone began to ring. Setting the two cups on the table, he checked the caller ID. Lestrade—maybe there was progress with the case, or maybe Delgado.

"Hey, Lestrade—"

_"John, we have a…situation. Remember Delgado from yesterday?"_ he sounded disturbingly anxious.

"Yeah, you took him into questioning, right?"

_"Well, we did. But…this morning, we were moving him to detention, and…"_

"What? What happened?"

_"These two guys ran in, knocked out some of the officers…and then...he escaped...Delgado escaped..."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Lestrade had implied over the phone that John couldn't help with Delgado anymore. An escaped, potentially dangerous suspect was now their responsibility. Lestrade had probably felt obligated to inform him. John tried to tell Lestrade the information he had just received from Harry, but the DI hung up—busy.

Harry, who was still lounging on the sofa, stirred and put a hand to her head, grimacing.

"Bloody hell…" she groaned. A headache, John decided.

"Come on. I'll drive you home," John said as he stood up, trying to hide his apparent anxiety.

"What time is it?"

John looked at his watch. "1:30."

"Oh, John…I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have…"

"Don't worry about it. Let's just get you home," he forced a smile.

Before they left, John grabbed the manila folder and tucked it under his jacket.

John led his sister downstairs and to her car, which she had haphazardly parked on the curb, mere inches from the car in front of it. He drove to her flat as she dozed off occasionally, leaning her head back on the seat.

When they arrived, Harry stopped him. "You're working on that…Caesar case, aren't you?"

John nodded. "Why?"

"Why don't you hold on to my car for awhile…you might need it."

"Harry—"

"You can't take cabs everywhere you go…hopping from place to place. Take it as an apology for my intrusion this morning."

John turned to the small, black car parked behind him. Frankly, he _did_ need a car for awhile. He had been doing a lot of commuting lately, and without Sherlock's…'steady'… income, the fares were adding up.

"I—I…Oh…Come here," he hugged her. "I love you, Harry."

_I guess, no matter what, she's my sister. My family. Despite the drinking, the divorce, I'm still her brother. Her family. And it'll be that way till the end._

* * *

After the usual farewells, John took Harry's car to Bart's, the folder sitting on the passenger's seat.

Molly was never difficult to find. The morgue was empty half the time, and Molly seemed to be the only one doing her work. When she saw him with the folder in his hand, she smiled. John thought she looked…relieved.

"Hello, John," she said. "Good to see you again."

"Hey, Molly. I brought your file back," he handed the folder to her, which she gratefully accepted.

She turned to her office to re-file it into her cabinet. When she came back, they sat down as Molly looked through some paperwork.

"So, I heard about your 'interrogation'. Well done."

John smiled appreciatively. "Yeah, but, I guess it was all for nothing, now that he's gone."

"Oh, don't say that. Now he'll look more suspicious when they find him—think of it that way."

"I suppose."

Molly continued on with her work, but John could tell that she was anxious about something.

"Molly…"

She perked up, but when she saw John's serious expression, her smile faded, like she knew what he was going to say.

"The grayanotoxin...I found a bottle of it in our flat before Sherlock died. After that, it was gone. Molly, you have to tell me…why did Sherlock have a bottle of poison?"

She tried to look somewhat surprised, but when her weak façade failed, she frowned. "What do you think happened that day? The day he fell…"

"What—everything I was told was a lie?" he was beginning to sound irritated.

"No…I mean…" she looked down. "Just—forget it."

"No, Molly, I _won't _forget it. What happened?"

"You've already figured it out, John! You just don't _believe_ it yet!" she nearly screamed in anguish.

John blinked when she said 'believe'. What could she mean by that?

She put her hand on her face. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, but John didn't think that it was directed towards him.

* * *

The thought kept creeping its way to the front of John's mind, but every time it did, he pushed it back, not even considering the possibility.

_Is Sherlock…? No. It's impossible. _

He thought back to that day, when he got the phone call—Sherlock's suicide note. He pulled out his phone and found the conversation, which he had saved, but didn't listen to it until now:

_Hello?_

_John._

_Hey, Sherlock, you okay?_

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now._

_No, I'm coming in._

_Just do as I ask. Please._

_Where?_

_Stop there._

_Sherlock?_

_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop._

_Oh God._

_I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this._

_What's going on?_

_An apology. It's all true._

_Wh-what?_

_Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty._

_Why are you saying this?_

_I'm a fake._

_Sherlock ..._

_The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._

_Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?_

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could._

_I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. (He sniffs quietly.) It's a trick. Just a magic trick._

_No. All right, stop it now._

_No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move._

_All right._

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?_

_Do what?_

_This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?_

_Leave a note when?_

_Goodbye, John._

_No. Don't._

_No. SHERLOCK! Sher..._

There was a beep, signaling that the call had ended. His heart was pounding, just as it had back then. But this time, it was different. He was listening for something…anything that would point him in the right direction. Sherlock was always cryptic. Maybe he could figure this one out—

_No. It's not possible._

His mind, torn in two, was at war. Logic and truth. The two are usually so similar. But now—

_Wait…_

He replayed a portion of their last conversation again in his head:

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now._

_No, I'm coming in._

_Just do as I ask. Please._

_Where?_

_Stop there._

And again:

_No. All right, stop it now._

_No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move._

Why would Sherlock want to be so…particular? So specific? John could watch his friend die at any angle, any location in that lot. So why did he have to stay there?

_What happened after he jumped?_

He thought back. The call ended when he jumped. Then he landed…

_Oh, God._

_I never saw him land…_

John's thought were interrupted by his phone ringing. Aggravated, he answered. It was Lestrade.

"_John…we…uh—we found Delgado…"_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

John and Lestrade stood before the body of Anthony Delgado as the forensic investigators frantically discussed the scene and collected evidence. It was in an alley, just like Leza, and the body was found under very similar circumstances: the stab wounds, and the note. The only difference—there was no Roman numeral to be found.

"Well…at least we can scratch one suspect off the list," Lestrade said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Who found the body?"

"We did. We got a call from a resident in these apartments that they saw Delgado walking around here, so we came down. This is what we found."

John nodded. "Could you tell me a bit more about his escape?"

"There isn't really much to tell. Like I said, we were moving him to detention, and—"

"Why were you moving him there?"

"The interrogation was successful…he wouldn't give us a proper alibi, and he didn't deny anything we accused him of. We were convinced he was involved somehow. I guess we were wrong."

"No. No, we were right," John turned to Lestrade.

"What?"

"Caesar's victims aren't random. That's evident in both the current circumstances _and _the first note."

"In the notes, Caesar says that he's 'avenging his own death' by killing those who betrayed him, right? But who has this many enemies?"

"Oh, I know who would…" John had forgotten that he didn't tell Lestrade about Leza. "James Moriarty."

"Wh—What? Moriarty—John, Moriarty is dead."

John's brow furrowed.

_Dead? When did that happen?_

"He can't be dead—"

"We found his body the same day Sherlock died. Shot himself."

John was dumbfounded. This punched holes in his entire theory.

_This isn't making sense…_

"Oh! Almost forgot," Lestrade called to one of the officers, who brought back a plastic evidence bag with a piece of parchment inside.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, handing John the note.

In large, sloppy print, the note read:

_'Et tu, Brute?'_

John didn't know a word of Latin, but he certainly knew what this was referring to.

"These were Caesar's last words…well, according to the Shakespearean play."

Lestrade stared at him. "Sorry, but I'm not an expert with that kind of thing."

"_'Brute'_ is probably referring to Brutus, Caesar's best friend and trusted Senator. He was the mastermind behind the assassination. In the play, _Julius Caesar_, Caesar sees Brutus among the conspirators, and calls out, '_Et tu, Brute?_', meaning, '_You too, Brutus?_'. That phrase has been…immortalized as his last words."

"And when did you become such a Shakespearean authority?"

John scoffed. In truth, he had read the play over and over again, though he had never seen the play. He considered it the only Shakespearean work he actually enjoys.

"Maybe when this is all over, we can go see the play," John joked. "Anyway, the note…the only explanation I can think of was what was already stated. Caesar's victims aren't random. Delgado was involved somehow—he might have even known Caesar. But he betrayed him, just like Brutus did."

Lestrade's light bulb went off. "When he was arrested…he put the whole operation at stake by messing up his alibi. Then when he escaped…"

"Caesar interpreted it as betrayal. But why would he need an alibi in the first place? Why was he involved at all?"

"We determined that there was a one-hour discrepancy between his account and what actually transpired, but we still don't know what happened in that hour."

John listened intently. What was Delgado doing?

"Lestrade…these homicides…I think they're a two-man operation."

Lestrade turned his head. "Where did _that_ come from?"

"One of them is the killer, and the other is the accomplice. I bet Delgado was the accomplice."

"Slow down, John. It's possible, but what do you have to back this up?"

"If Delgado _was_ part of this, then he was definitely an accomplice, since he was killed under similar circumstances."

"But they weren't the _same_ circumstances."

"No, the Roman numerals were missing, and the note wasn't written in the same handwriting…"

Lestrade's eyes widened, as though he just realized what John was getting at. "You're saying…Delgado usually planted those at the scene, but this time…well, he obviously couldn't."

"But the killer has to keep up the character and the acting, so he couldn't just _not _leave a note."

"But why did he forget the numerals?"

John thought about this. They still didn't know their purpose, so that couldn't be d—

_The purpose of the chosen dialect was not to conceal the message—_

John remembered the conversation he had with Mycroft yesterday.

_No. It wasn't. This is so…typical of you two. The message wasn't the only encryption. The French itself was a message as well…signaling a particular action, phrase, etc. Genius…_

"The numerals…they were a form of communication between the two!"

Lestrade blinked at John's sudden realization.

"It was like a code…an encryption, only understandable to Delgado and Caesar. Caesar would kill their victim, then Delgado would erase any tracks, any traces of his partner's identity. Then he left the note and the numerals. But the numerals were only necessary when _both_ of them were alive."

Lestrade paused for awhile, considering this. "Wow. That actually makes sense."

"Now that Delgado is dead, Caesar doesn't have anyone to clean up after him. Maybe catching him will be a lot easier now," John said, trying to be optimistic.

"Let's hope so."

"What about the two guys who helped Delgado escape? Did you ever find them?"

"No, we—"

John was already on the ground before he heard the second gunshot, and Lestrade followed suit. Behind them, they could hear some of the other officers calling to one another and shouting orders. Lestrade pulled out his gun and sat behind a police car, looking over it to see what was going on, and John did the same.

There were two figures standing on the street, about 20 feet away from the crime scene. Their guns were aimed towards the sky as they fired a couple of warning shots.

One of them stepped forward, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. "lēgātōs Caesaris sumus. Subsístite hac investgationem, aut interum Caesar sē traditorem interficiet. Capite hac," he then took the piece of paper, which John saw was attached to some sort of weight, and threw it in the general direction of the police. "Nolite temptare edurare. Id paenitḗbitis."

They both poised their guns towards the group of armed officers and slowly began to depart. Soon, a black van drove up behind them, and they ushered themselves inside. As the van sped away, John tried to read the license plate, but could only catch the first three characters: LU6.

Several officers got in their cars and chased after the van, but a few stayed behind. A forensic investigator picked up the note the figures had thrown and examined it.

"Anyone speak Latin?" Lestrade asked generally. The response or lack thereof, implied that no one understood anything they said. John picked up the name 'Caesar' a couple times and 'investigation', but other than that, it was just gibberish to him.

"We'll see if there were any security cameras that picked up that speech. Then we'll send that to a translator," Lestrade said as he stood, stretching his arms.

"You seem…calm," John commented.

"Oh, we get threats all the time. Hell, we don't know if that was even a threat."

_Right. The gunfire and raging Latin speech couldn't be interpreted as a threat. No way…_

John rolled his eyes. "Let's see what the note says."

They walked over to the investigator with the note. He told them that the note was just more Latin, which they sent off to a translator.

"What was the thing tied to it?" John asked.

The investigator handed him a plastic bag with a small piece of black painted wood.

Upon further examination, John found that it was a chess piece—a bishop.

* * *

John's head was spinning as he walked away from the crime scene. Delgado, the threat, the bishop…all of this new information was too much for John to process. He needed to calm down in order to think clearly.

He got in Harry's car and began to drive back to Baker Street. On his way, he purposely took a wrong turn and headed towards the cemetery.

John was alone, wandering through the endless rows of tombstones until he found the one he was looking for. He stopped in front of the black, marble headstone with Sherlock's name carved in gold lettering.

"I can't believe you put me in charge of this whole ordeal…" he laughed. "You would have had this case closed in ten minutes, I bet."

He knelt down so he was eye-level with the headstone.

"If…if you could…" John sighed. "Ah, forget it. I guess I got into this myself. But…"

John felt tears welling up in his eyes. "I hope—I hope that you're not really lying six feet below my feet, even though I know it's true. Please, just—just help me figure this bloody case out," he choked. "This is too much. I'm confused, I'm scared, I'm…" he paused, looking for the right word, "I'm lost."

John waited. He didn't know what he expected—maybe some sort of sign from Sherlock, something he could interpret in a hundred different ways, like it used to be. He didn't really believe in that sort of thing, but it was worth a try.

"My previous wish still stands, you know. Please…"

He touched the earth below him. "Why did you have to die?" he whispered, almost inaudibly.

He took a shaky breath and stood, wiping the tears from his eyes before he could allow them to fall.

As he walked away, John found that his leg was beginning to hurt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Do you know how to play chess?" Lestrade asked John.

"Eh…sort of. I never really learned."

The two were sitting in Lestrade's office. After John left the cemetery, he was called back in to wait for the Latin translations. John was fiddling with the black bishop that was attached to the note, contemplating its meaning.

"Neither did I," Lestrade smirked. "Is that," he pointed to the chess piece, "the…rook?"

"This is the bishop. I think it can move…diagonally or something."

"Does it mean anything to you?"

John thought about telling him about the chessboard back at Baker Street, but it was irrelevant, he decided. "No."

Just then, Donovan knocked on the open door, making her presence known. "I got both of the translations. Good luck," she muttered as she tossed two pieces of paper on Lestrade's desk. As she left, John and Lestrade leaned in to read the translations. The first was that of the monologue given by one of the armed agents; one of the security cameras picked up the audio as well as video:

_We are Caesar's envoys. Stop this investigation; else Caesar will kill his betrayers once again. Take this. Do not try to continue. You will regret it._

Lestrade frowned. "Well, then…"

"This is just a rough translation, right?"

"Yeah. But the Latin was _really_ basic—that's what the translator told me when I gave it to him."

John made a mental note of this. "Let's see the other."

Lestrade took the other paper from behind the stack and held it so both of them could read it:

_I am the embodiment of the Heavens,_

_The keeper of the Water._

_I smother the Fire,_

_And the dead are mine to bury._

_What am I?_

"Oh…it's a _bloody riddle!_" Lestrade groaned.

_A riddle for what?_

"Tell me, John…was Caesar any good at riddles?"

John picked up the original note, which was in a pile on Lestrade's desk. He held it up to read the Latin, even though he had no idea what he was reading. "Not that I—"

He thought he saw some sort of shape on the paper, and as he moved it around, he tried to find it again, but it had disappeared. "What the—"

He held it up higher so it was above his eye-level. Lestrade gave him a look of trepidation as John took the note out of the plastic bag and held it closer and closer the light hanging over them.

John blocked the artificial light with the parchment, a yellowish glow emanating from the fibers of the paper. Through the contrast, John found a series of shapes lined up against one another on the blank side of the note. There was a row of squiggles printed in faded writing, so it was only visible when held up against light. Upon further examination, John found that they were sloppy, disoriented question marks.

"John, you should probably put that back…"

"Look at this," John motioned for Lestrade to stand where he was standing. He handed him the note and told him to hold it just as he had. Lestrade took a few seconds before he understood.

"Question marks? This guy sure is being cryptic…"

John took all three pieces—the note, the speech, and the bishop—and placed them beside each other in the order in which they came to them: first the speech, then the note, then the bishop (the latter being interchangeable). They all came from Caesar, so how were they connected?

"The riddle…the warning…"John murmured to himself.

_The warning…the threat…the order. Then the riddle, the clue, the hint…._

"The riddle contradicts the threat," John stated simply. "If they're telling us to stop investigating, then why did they give us a clue?"

Lestrade nodded, "Didn't notice that. But what about the bishop? I doubt they were just using it as a paperweight."

"We'll get to that," John said, keeping his eyes on the three pieces of evidence. "They were both delivered in Latin, but one of them was basic Latin…the kind that's easier to speak, to orate. Lestrade, did the translator mention anything about the Latin in the riddle?"

"Not particularly, but when he looked at it, his eyes kind of…widened. He could have implied that the sentences were much more complex."

John nodded. "Those envoys…didn't the speech sound…rehearsed? Then again, how many people actually _speak_ Latin?"

"The pope!" Lestrade exclaimed.

John sighed. "That's true, but I don't think the pope is a serial killer. Anyway, the messengers obviously didn't know Latin, but they had to stay in character…as loyalists—"

He was interrupted by Lestrade's hand slamming the desk in realization, "Those two didn't _know _Latin either. It was like reading a script. So they couldn't read what the note said."

"They didn't know what they were delivering," John smirked, "Brilliant."

"Caesar purposefully sent us two opposing messages: one that would help us and one that would stop us."

"Given that the envoys didn't know what they were doing, but Caesar did. It's likely that the riddle is legitimate. Plus the bishop, he was trying to give us a hint."

"Why would a criminal help us?"

John thought about this, "Because he's getting bored…" he muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"N—Nothing. I don't know. Now, the bishop…" John picked it up off the desk. He inconspicuously fiddled with the bottom of the chess piece, checking to see if it had a secret compartment. Nothing. He held it up to his face to look for any inscriptions or markings. Nothing.

"John, it's getting late. Why don't we pick this up tomorrow?"

* * *

Lestrade allowed John to take home a photo copy of the riddle, both translations, and the bishop. He drove to Baker Street with the evidence sitting on the passenger seat. Every so often, he would glance at them, hoping he would have some sort of epiphany.

By the time he got home, he had no such revelation.

He recited the riddle over and over again, trying to find meaning in its words. John recalled a short psychology course he took during medical school, where he learned about apophenia, a condition in which people see patterns in random, meaningless sets of data.

_God, maybe I _am _going mad…_

But then there was Sherlock, who could find a solution, an answer to just about everything, and he always looked at the tiniest details.

_But wasn't that his fault? Making everything so complicated? He could never look at anything so simply…he had to extract and analyze every bit of information…_

_Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. _

He thought about the riddle generally, as broadly as he could.

It mention the sky, water, and fire, which could be referring to the four elements, in which case 'burying the dead' would have to be earth. But this didn't tell him anything. He decided to take it line by line.

_I am the embodiment of the Heavens…_

Embodiment of the sky, perhaps? Clouds? That would make sense, since they 'keep water', which can 'smother fire'. But clouds don't bury the dead. That was out.

Next line:

_...the keeper of the Water…_

What holds water? Cups, urns…urns, and ashes? They kind of 'bury the dead'…but they're not the embodiment of the Heavens.

_I smother the Fire…_

What can smother fires? Fire extinguishers? No…Water? No.

_...and the dead are mine to bury._

That was obvious. Referencing the earth, it must be something that literally 'buries the dead.' But how could that relate to the rest of the riddle?

John noted that Heavens, Water, and Fire were all capitalized. Maybe they were…important? No. Maybe they symbolized something else…something beyond themselves?

Maybe.

Heavens: sky, religion, paradise, escape.

Water: river, flow, purity, transparency.

Fire: flame, heat, candle, Hell.

"This isn't making any sense. Come on, John. Don't look at the details. Look at the bigger picture."

John could practically hear Sherlock talking to him, guiding him through this. He rubbed his leg to soothe the pain that was beginning to swell.

"I—I can't, Sherlock…"

He grabbed his head, like he was trying to squeeze the answers out of his mind. Just like Molly had said…maybe he did have a case of nihilism.

He lay back on the sofa, rubbing his hands over his face. He picked up the bishop from the coffee table and fiddled with it, having forgotten about it.

_A bishop. It's probably part of the riddle, but how on Earth could it be related?_

He tried not to think about the chessboard, the thought slowly creeping to the front of his mind again, but he forced it back. Deciding to save it until morning, he went to bed, the riddle consuming his every thought and dream.

* * *

**Well, can ****_you_**** solve the riddle? Let me know if you have a guess! *Hint: Don't forget the bishop***

**There's this song called 'Dead-weight on Velveteen' by Jose Gonzalez, and I think it fits the story quite well. You should check it out:)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The next day, Lestrade called John again, asking him to check out another Caesar victim.

The entire drive there was spent picking at every detail that could be hidden within the riddle. John found nothing…but he didn't expect anything more.

_If I can figure this out, then maybe we can catch Caesar sooner._

Then again, it could just be a red herring, meant to drive the police off a cliff trying to solve it.

* * *

The crime scene seemed normal enough when John got out of his car. It was in an alley again, the body in relatively the same position. When Lestrade saw him, he began walking towards him.

"John! Did you solve the riddle?" he asked anxiously.

"No, sorry…I tried, but…"

"Oh, don't be sorry. I sent it off to some 'professionals'," he ticked his fingers in the air, "but they haven't gotten back to us."

John nodded. "So, what is it this time?"

"Same. This one has the Roman numerals," Lestrade mentioned as they made their way towards the body.

As they were approaching, John immediately noticed the '_VII' _inscribed on the victim's face. He sighed.

_Seven already…_

"Everything seems to follow his modus operandi fine, except—"

"There's a lot more evidence around here, right?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "On the nose, Sherlock…"

John ignored his insensitive comment and knelt down beside the body to examine it more closely. Two stab wounds, as usual. The victim appeared to be in his mid-forties; he wore a suit and tie, and his hair was slicked back. It looked like he was on his way to work or a meeting.

"What kind of evidence?"

"Well, for one thing, there's the briefcase…" he retrieved a large, black case from one of the forensic investigators and showed it to John. "It was found near the end of the alley, close to the street, about 15 feet away from the body. It has his initials and fingerprints on it, so it's definitely his. Caesar must have tried to take it, but something made him drop it on his way out…"

John agreed with him. "What's inside?"

Lestrade sighed. "Well…" he turned the briefcase over to show John a combination lock at the top.

"Oh, _bloody hell!_" John exclaimed. "_Another?! _ Why is he making this so difficult…_" _

"Look, if I ever become a serial killer, I'll be sure to make it easier for you…deal?" Lestrade joked.

John smirked. "Sorry, I'm just…frustrated. Anything else?"

"A footprint, a clothing fiber, and a dried blood stain that does _not _match the victim's—without Delgado, this guy's a mess."

"Do you remember when Sherlock identified the location of a criminal's hideout with nothing but a footprint?"

"Yeah, but I don't think our guys can do that even if they tried."

John shrugged. "And the fiber?"

"Undergoing analysis as we speak. Same with the blood, but that'll take a bit longer."

"No matter how long it takes, they'll get us closer to finding him," John said, more to himself than Lestrade. "Victim information?"

"Sean Burke, 46, business man. Co-workers claim he was on his way to a company meeting. Why would a serial killer have something against these guys? They seem pretty average."

"They may seem average, but I don't think they were what we _think_ they were."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe this guy was a business man to his family, his friends…everyone. But that was for show. He was involved with something underground, something even the government is unaware of."

Lestrade looked at John inquisitively. "That's quite the conclusion."

"Think about it. Based on _our_ records, Caesar doesn't have any proper motives, right? This animosity must be 'between the lines', so to say."

"So you think this is personal?"

John considered this. "Maybe, but it's unlikely, since Caesar goes on about betrayal and such. And settling personal disputes doesn't require homicide, calling cards, and Latin-speaking envoys."

"Now that's a good point…"

_Latin-speaking envoys…?_

John suddenly remembered what Lestrade had said…

_Those envoys…didn't the speech sound…rehearsed? Then again, how many people actually speak Latin?_

_The pope!_

John drifted off, leaving Lestrade to stare at him suspiciously.

_Latin…the pope…the bishop…_

He felt his heart rate increase, but he didn't exactly know why. It felt like one of those instinctual feelings…as if you were right on the edge of a cliff. You're right there, inches away from…

_Latin…pope…bishop…_

_Heavens…Water…Fire…Dead…_

John's eyes widened.

_Look at the big picture…_

"Lestrade…I think I've solved the riddle."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"A _church_? Where the hell did you get that from?" Lestrade asked John as they stepped away from the immediate cluster of officers.

"If you think about it, it makes sense. The bishop is the biggest hint—it's _literally _referring to a bishop. Then the rest of it…'embodiment of the Heavens'…well, that's self-explanatory. 'Keeper of the Water' could be Holy water. 'Smother the fire' could refer to Hell or to confessions and relieving you of sin. 'The dead are mine to bury'…most churches have cemeteries."

Lestrade seemed to think about this. "…Sounds right. So what do we do with it? Is the pope really a serial killer?"

"Er…no. Caesar sent this as a hint, so maybe he wants us to…I dunno, go to a church or something."

"Yeah? Well, which church? In London? Rome? Do we storm St. Peter's Basilica?"

"No, we know that Caesar is in London, so he wouldn't have us go so far. It's probably a church somewhere in the city."

"Yes, but where?"

John rubbed his eyes. "I dunno."

Lestrade leaned back on a police car. "Then we're not making any progress."

John replayed the past few days, looking for any clues he had neglected to acknowledge. Something had to point to a location. He remembered the two envoys—their message, the delivery, the van—

_The van…_

John had seen the first three characters on the license plate: LU6.

"Lestrade, what does 'U' code for on a license plate?"

"Sidcup…why?"

"The van yesterday…I caught the first three characters: LU6. I know that 'L' is for London, and the '6' means that it was recently registered. 'U' means that it's in Sidcup. That should narrow it down."

Lestrade smiled. "Oi, Berkley! Get me a list of all the churches in Sidcup!"

The officer complied and Lestrade turned back to John. "Even if it's narrowed down, how'll we know which one is the right one? We don't even know what we're looking for."

"We don't. Maybe we'll know when we find it."

* * *

Within ten minutes, John, Lestrade, and a few others arrived in Sidcup. They searched five churches without finding anything. The other officers were growing skeptical.

"This is pointless," one of them said, "...we need a specific location if we're going to accomplish _anything_."

John was barely listening as he tried to eliminate some of the churches. He looked at the list that was printed out earlier, checking off the ones they searched. Even if one of these was the one they were looking for, what _would _they find? Another clue? Caesar himself?

_If it was something like that, then why did he choose something public? Why not—_

"We aren't looking for a public church," John thought aloud.

The others seemed confused.

"Maybe we should find an abandoned church…something no one visits anymore. Perfect for a secret hideaway or something…"

"John," Lestrade stopped him, "…you don't think…"

He shrugged. "It's possible."

"But unlikely. We'll check if there are any abandoned ones…if there aren't, then we'll give up on this one, 'kay?"

John nodded, though he didn't agree. Caesar wasn't the kind to be so arbitrary—he had a reason to do everything he did…at least, that's what he had gathered thus far.

As they drove, John heart rate was picking up speed again.

_We _have _to be getting close…_

He kept his head turned to look out the window, keeping an eye out for any abandoned churches or cathedrals. After awhile, Lestrade nudged his shoulder, "John. We got it."

John turned to look out the other window, where he saw an old, decrepit church, obviously too mangled to be properly put to use. It was fairly large, but nothing spectacular. It was built with ancient stones bricks and wood. The few windows it had were broken, some of the stained glass still on the grass below. As they got out of the car, John peered behind it to see a cemetery.

They approached the doors, all of them overtly uneasy. When they came to the entrance, they saw the remains of wooden planks that had once been bolted to the doors—now, they had been torn off, splintered at the ends. No one could notice that from the road.

_Someone broke in…_

Lestrade pulled out his gun as the rest of the officers followed suit. Before they entered, one of them handed John a gun as well.

They tried the door, but it was locked. After a few tries, they kicked the door down, making quite a bit of noise that echoed through the church. They stepped in cautiously, their guns poised. With only a few windows, it was darker than they expected, so one of the officers went back to the car to gather torches, which he then distributed to the rest. The chapel was larger than it seemed from the outside with nearly a dozen rows of pews, all dusty and toppled. The altar was covered in broken glass, and the roof looked as though it would cave in.

"This doesn't look too safe…" Lestrade whispered, but his voice echoed through the chapel.

"Yes, thanks for the optimism," John answered sarcastically. As he looked over to Lestrade, he saw the entrance to a corridor behind him. He nodded to the others and they followed. At the end of the short hallway, they came to a door, which was conveniently unlocked. John turned the knob slowly and pushed it open, making it creak. He stopped, careful not to make too much noise. He pushed it ever so gently and succeeded in entering quietly. Their guns raised, they dispersed to the ends of the room, but when they turned their torches to the west wall, they all paused an stared.

"What the—"

John and Lestrade were the only ones to recognize the series of question marks graffitied on the wall in red paint. They seemed to cover the entire wall, one after the other with no apparent organization. The note with the riddle had hidden a similar pattern on the paper.

"Well," John said, "I think this is the right church."

* * *

The group spent a few minutes examining the room with the question marks, searching for any other clues or potential evidence. John was scrutinizing a tapestry, finding a few Latin phrases, but nothing to any importance. He pulled it back from the bottom to look behind it, and when he saw the hidden opening, he silently gasped.

He looked over his shoulder to see the others, who were still investigating, completely focused and oblivious to John's discovery. Against his conscience, he quietly slipped behind the tapestry and entered another corridor.

_God, John, what are you doing? Tell Lestrade…_

He shook his head. It probably won't be anything helpful…

_Right, secret door doesn't mean _anything_…._

Nevertheless, the continued down the hall, coming to another door. When he opened it, he found a flight of stairs leading down, probably to the basement.

He began his descent. Every so often, he turned to see if anyone was following him…but he was certainly alone.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he raised his gun, prepared for the worst. But instead of coming face to face with a serial killer, he found another room, the walls lined with the same question marks. There was a table in the center of the room with a few lit candles set on it.

_Someone _has _to be in here…_

He slowly approached the table, his eyes constantly darting around the room. On the table, he found several folders strewn about, some open and some closed. From the open ones, he saw a few papers he didn't recognize as anything of importance. He lifted one of them, and paper clipped to the back of the folder was a photograph. John's eyes widened when he found that it was of James Leza's dead body, propped up against the wall in the alley. Someone had taken a red marker and drew a big question mark over most of the photo. He checked the other folders and found that they were the same.

He flipped through the papers in Leza's folder, finding pictures, records, and other information on him. On each picture where his face was visible, a red line had been drawn over his eyes.

John opened a drawer and found another stack of folders. He counted twenty-three including the seven on the table.

_Twenty-three…the same number of Senators who killed Caesar…_

"God…this guy's a psychopath…"

"I'm not a psychopath…"

John heard this voice behind him and immediate turned around, his reflexes kicking in. He raised his gun and pointed his torch toward the direction of the voice. When he saw his face, it took everything he had to not drop his gun.

"…I'm a high-functioning sociopath."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"Sh—Sherlock?" John nearly whispered. He felt a sudden wave of vertigo as he looked at the face of his (previously) dead friend. He looked the same, aside from the psychotic glare and the gun pointed at John.

"Oh, don't act so surprised," he waved his gun slightly. "I know you figured it out long before this."

John blinked several times, just to be sure that all of this was real. He didn't know whether to feel ecstatic or nauseous.

"What—what are you doing here," John stammered.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Sherlock answered in a very condescending tone.

John—even though he knew what he was going to say—lowered his gun, unable to even consider the idea of pointing a gun at his best friend.

"You're—Caesar?" his voiced cracked.

"Yes, I see you figured that out as well," Sherlock kept his gun raised.

"But—how?"

"You see, I haven't been completely disconnected from the outside world in my absence. I know you and my brother had a little…chat."

"I watched you die, Sherlock," even saying the name made him feel sick.

"No, John. You saw me fall. But tell me…did you see me land?"

John remembered his when he replayed the scenario in his head. He _didn't _see him land, but…

"So, what…I have to assume that you went into hiding? Where?"

Sherlock, keeping the gun trained on John, motioned to the room around them. "For such a successful investigation, you are _incredibly _slow."

"And now you're a serial killer?" John held back the tears that were beginning to fall.

"I suppose you're expecting some sort of explanation. After my 'suicide', I came here after wiping myself off the grid…with the help of a certain pathologist."

John shuddered at the idea of Molly _helping _Sherlock…

_A month ago, that would have been completely normal. Now…_

Sherlock continued. "You see, after our first encounter with Moriarty, I saw a profound resemblance in the two of us…we were both superior, cunning, and we had the same goal. We became partners—"

"Moriarty was real?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Now, any more interruptions and I won't hesitate putting a bullet in your chest."

John swallowed. For just a moment, he thought…

_No. Sherlock…the old Sherlock…he's gone._

"Everything that came after that was all planned and accounted for by his network—and through all of this, you were completely unaware. I tried—and succeeded—to staying in character as the 'good detective' to get insider-information, fooling you and Scotland Yard…which, admittedly, wasn't difficult.

"In order to accomplish our common goal, Moriarty and I faked out deaths and went into hiding. The scene on the rooftop was all a set up to make the world believe that we were gone. But we didn't want it to look like a murder or accident; we wanted the media to _know _that we were truly gone… and the only way to do it was to make it scandalous…'a fake genius' jumps off a rooftop in shame…it worked, to say the least.

John lingered on every word, trying to find some second meaning to anything…the whole time feeling faint.

"After a few weeks of preparation, we began to execute our operation. We created a new serial killer together. Now, you already figured this part out…there were _two _people involved: Moriarty and I. Delgado was an employee appointed to help us further, but…needless to say, it didn't work as we expected.

"Moriarty was the mastermind behind the murders; he planned each step and mapped out how it should be executed. I, then, put them to action. _I _killed those seven men. And _I will_ kill sixteen more," he sneered as a maniacal smile spread across his face.

"The victims we chose were former members of Moriarty's network, but at one point or another, they _betrayed _him…releasing information, publically divulging secrets—the sort of things that could have resulted in the network's collapse. A few loyalists also assisted us in the disposal of these former employees…but we needed to do more than that to completely erase them. We needed to start a _war_."

_…Armageddon…_

"Caesar was invented to keep the public's eyes off of us and on another figure…so we made it dramatic. The calling cards…the Roman numerals…which, by the way, I planted to covertly communicate with Moriarty. But, of course, I can't tell you _why_.

"But, eventually, we got _bored_. So we thought we'd stir things up a bit and pass out a few hints," he scoffed. "And now, here we are. Face to face. _I… am... Caesar," _he said, drawing out every word.

John listened, absolutely terrified. But he surprised himself when he spoke with such honesty:

"I don't believe you."

Sherlock's execrable expression faltered, just for a moment…

_Did he just look…relieved?_

But his face twisted again, regaining his malevolent stare. "It wasn't real, John. None of it was."

"I refuse to believe it. I never could really trust everything you said with your _deceptive_ nature…and I feel the same way now."

Sherlock exhaled. "I'm sor—" he stopped. He turned his head to hide his face. When he turned back, he frowned. "You know who I am now, but you can't tell anyone. I'm a dead man…and as far as I know, you can't arrest someone with a death certificate," he said mockingly.

"Maybe not," John said as he kept trying to contain his sorrow. "…but I know you, Sherlock. This isn't…this isn't you. And I'm going to prove it."

Sherlock laughed. "Going to prove all of this wrong, are you? Well…good luck with that."

He gave John a menacing glare, but John tried to look past it.

_This isn't the real Sherlock. This is an actor. He's just pretending…_

"So go on…tell the world that _I'm _Caesar."

John knew that he was right. Even if Sherlock _was _Caesar, he couldn't tell anyone, more or less convict him.

"I suppose I'll have to leave this place…" Sherlock drawled, looking around the room casually. His gun was still aimed at John. "Laters."

And without another word, Sherlock turned and stepped away from the torch-light, retreating into the darkness. John quickly flashed it in his direction, but he was already gone.

_How…?_

He turned around himself, trying to see him again, but he was left alone.

"John?! Are you down here?" he heard Lestrade call from the stairwell.

"Y—Yeah," he stammered as a tear escaped his eyes. He wiped it away, "I found something."


	14. Chapter 14

**New poster guys! :D**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

"Have you seen these, John? These are the victims' profiles…John?"

Lestrade nudged John with his elbow, "Hmm? Oh, yeah."

"You okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I just…wasn't expecting to find anything like this. Very conclusive."

Lestrade nodded. "We should send these back to NSY for prints, then we'll go through some of the files."

Before they left, John pulled Lestrade aside so the other officers couldn't hear them. "We need to talk. Not here…"

"What about? I'll be pretty busy…"

"Trust me. You'll want to listen to this."

* * *

Forensics didn't find any fingerprints or other incriminating evidence on the files or anything else in the church. Lestrade and John were then permitted to look through the folders, but there wasn't much they could do. Each folder was designated to one person—on seven of them, red slashes appeared on the photographs. The other sixteen were untouched.

"The seven with these red marks have already been killed. These other sixteen people should be taken into protective custody," John suggested.

"Already did. They're locating them right now."

John nodded. "Other than that, I don't know what else we can do—"

"What did you want to tell me, John?" Lestrade asked. They were in his office, so no one could eavesdrop.

John shifted in his chair. He knew that he should tell Lestrade about Sherlock—he seemed to be the only one he could trust with this sort of thing. Besides, it could also help with the investigation…

_Then again, will he even believe me? The whole story is really far-fetched. _

"Alright, well…this is going to sound—this is going to sound absolutely _incredulous_…but…"

"John…" Lestrade interrupted, "…did you see someone down there?"

He paused. "Yes."

"Then why didn't you tell us? We could have arrested him right then and there!"

"Even if you had come downstairs and seen him, you wouldn't have arrested him."

"…Why not?"

John took a deep breath. "It…it was Sherlock…"

Lestrade didn't seem to react at first. He sat, staring at John, his expression unfaltering. After a few moments of silence, he pulled his fingers into a fist. "Sherlock…_Holmes_?"

John nodded slowly.

"But—he—" Lestrade stammered. "Are you…sure?"

"It was definitely him."

Lestrade turned his head to look out the window as he leaned back in his chair. "You're saying he's alive, then? _You_ were the one who saw him fall…"

"I have uncovered some…new information that would prove that he is, in fact, alive and well."

"I'd love to see that, you know."

"But don't you get it? Sherlock _is _dead to the rest of the world. Legally, he doesn't exist. If I'm going to show you anything, it has to be off the records."

"That's asking a lot, you now."

John sighed. "At least let me tell you what I saw."

"Ah, that's right. What _was _Sherlock doing there? Was he investigating or something? Trying to crack the case on his own?"

"See, this is where it gets…complicated."

John recounted everything Sherlock had told him to Lestrade—the fake suicides, their network, Caesar. Lestrade only interrupted once when John mentioned Moriarty working with Sherlock.

"Wait, Moriarty is alive? How is that possible?"

"I don't know. I have no idea how either of them did it."

When he was done, Lestrade made no indication of whether he believed it or not. This made John more nervous than it should have.

_This was a terrible mistake…_

Lestrade placed his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands. "John…"

_Great. _

"I think I might be going mad…" Lestrade said, not looking at John. "I...believe you."

John's eyes widened. "Wh—what, really?"

"The only thing that doesn't make sense is the fact that Sherlock is _Caesar_. Doesn't that seem…I dunno…too psychopathic?"

"I didn't believe anything he said."

Lestrade nodded. "He gave a confession, but even if we _did _believe him, we couldn't arrest him. He was pronounced dead…everyone'll think it's a joke."

"I think we're in agreement that Sherlock couldn't be Caesar…"

"Slow down. I never said it was _impossible_. It just seems _unlikely_."

John considered this. They didn't have any evidence confirming that he was Caesar…but they also didn't have any saying that he wasn't.

"You had to be there…he—he seemed…rehearsed, that's probably the best word for it. When I would ask questions, he was frazzled, like he was trying to come up with an answer. And then—" he paused.

"…What?"

"Never mind. Nothing."

"…Alright. What do you want to do, then? If he _is _Caesar, then we can't—"

Just then, an officer knocked on the door. When he came in, he placed a stack of papers in front of Lestrade. "We tried to contact or locate all sixteen of these people, but we couldn't find _any _of them."

"_What_? None of them? But that's impossible!" Lestrade demanded.

"We tried tracking cell phones, license plates, addresses, companies, but we couldn't pinpoint any of their whereabouts."

_Alright, I don't know much about this sort of thing, but this is _really _weird. They can track just about anyone in London, so what's so different about these sixteen people? It can't be coincidence that they just happen to be Caesar's targets._

After Lestrade's short paroxysm, the officer left, leaving John and Lestrade in the office.

"Lestrade, you know, this sort of makes sense. These people would definitely want to stay off the grid, after their disputes with Moriarty. Maybe they've just gone into hiding themselves, but not from Caesar—"

"From Moriarty, yes, that does make sense. So, that much of Sherlock's story could be true. Like I was saying, if Sherlock is Caesar, that this whole investigation will be for naught. If he isn't, then we still have a chance of finding him. I, for one, am hoping Sherlock was lying…"

"Me too—you know, Sherlock must have been the one to give us the riddle, so it was like he was giving us a hint, right?"

"Yeah, so maybe…wait, is he trying to _help_ us?"

"That backs up our theory even more!"

"So, do you think, if we disprove Sherlock's claim to be Caesar, it will lead to the real one?"

"I think that's a possibility, yes."

_What a turn of events…we've found the killer…now we have to vindicate him._

* * *

**I got addicted to a new show this weekend, and I haven't been able to stop, so I took a little hiatus:)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Happy Thanksgiving, by the way!**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

NSY was on the verge of bedlam for the rest of the day trying to find the sixteen potential victims. Countless phone calls and APBs, but they found nothing. These sixteen people had simply vanished.

John figured that finding the real Caesar before he could eliminate anyone else was their only option—protective custody was going to be impossible.

The only problem: he had no idea where to start. They had gathered an insufficient amount of evidence at the church, so he had to find something else. He hadn't delved too far into Sean Burke's murder...

_The briefcase…_

John asked Lestrade if he could have another look at the briefcase. It was still locked. Lestrade told him that they didn't want to destroy its contents by breaking into it:

"And besides, I doubt there's anything in it of good use."

"Then why did Caesar try to take it?"

Lestrade seemed to forget that it was found several feet away from the body. Either he dropped it on his way in, or the killer tried to take it with him as he left.

"Well, do you know how to open it, then?"

John laughed. "No…" The lock needed three letters to open it.

"Wait…what was Burke's middle name?"

"Er, I don't know off the top of my head. Let me go check." A few moments later, he returned with the correct file. "Let's see…Calvin…Sean Calvin Burke."

"Thank you," John muttered as he entered 'S-C-B'. He heard a 'click' and unlatched the locks holding the case closed.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "For God's sake…"

John gently opened the case and took a general glance at its contents. A half-dozen folders, a planner, a fountain pen, notepads—the sort of thing you would expect to see in a business man's briefcase.

"See? Like I said…nothing of any importance. But we _did_ get some results on the clothing fiber…remember?"

"What?—Oh, right."

"It was the same material used to make Belstaff coats."

John looked up. He saw that Lestrade was looking at him strangely, implying that he knew what this meant.

_Sherlock wore a Belstaff coat…_

This meant that Sherlock _was _at the scene—that, or someone planted the evidence.

Under a tacit agreement, they entered Lestrade's office again.

"If Sherlock was there, then he must have been the one to take the briefcase. You knew Sherlock well enough…he wouldn't take it if it didn't contain something important."

Lestrade shrugged. "True, but look. There's nothing in here," he said, referring to the case.

John took the case in his hands again. "Maybe there's something amidst these papers…" he placed it on the desk and began rifling through the files. Most of them were related to the company he supposedly worked for. Lestrade stopped John when he saw something:

"Is that Delgado?"

John looked at the file he was pointing to. There was a picture of Delgado with a red streak over his eyes.

_Did he know Delgado? Probably, since the red mark is the same as Caesar. Maybe he knew Caesar was after him…_

They both kept looking, but found nothing that could be related to Caesar. John found a printed web page on grayanotoxin, but dismissed it, not wanting to tell Lestrade about it. He made a mental note, wanting to look at it later.

At the very bottom of the case, they found a piece of crumpled note paper.

"Oh…well…okay, maybe _that's _something," Lestrade said as John smoothed out the paper so they could read it:

_Uvcltily 7 2013: 7:00_

_Yhjpul: 239 Iyvtwavu Yvhk, Svukvu_

_Jvtl pu kpznbpzl_

_-ZO_

"…What the hell?" Lestrade said.

John look at the writing inquisitively, his brow furrowed.

"It's bloody gibberish!"

"No…no it wouldn't be gibberish…" John murmured. "It's…it's a cipher…"

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. "Great…" he drawled. "Send it to cryptology or something."

John shook his head. "That'll take too long. We need to figure this out…"

"John…"

"Look," John pointed to the first line, ignoring him, "This is obviously a date and time…the date being the 7th…that's today. Something is happening today at 7 o'clock."

Lestrade looked at the paper to confirm John's theory. He nodded, "That's great, but how could we know what kind of cipher it is, much less how to solve it?"

John didn't know much about ciphers, but he knew of a few. He had heard of one where the letters of the original message shift by a given number, resulting in something similar to this. He tried to remember what it was called—

"Oh my God," he laughed. "It's a _Caesar _cipher…"

"Pardon?"

"That's what it's called. Shifting letters like this…it makes sense, doesn't it?" he smiled. "We just need a number to shift it back…"

"Another bridge to cross…"

"Wait…November 7th…7 o'clock…seventh victim. I bet it's seven."

"Another bridge crossed…"

John had to search for a cipher decoder online to figure it out. He entered the letters and set the correct number. The result left them both dumbstruck:

_November 7 2013: 7:00_

_Racine: 239 Brompton Road, London_

_Come in disguise._

_-SH_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Lestrade immediately went to his computer to search for something. "What's the address again?"

"239 Brompton Road."

"I think it's a restaurant…" he typed in the address, "Yep. Here we go. Racine…that's the name of the restaurant."

"I've heard of it." John remembered walking past it a few times, but it was too grandiose for his taste.

"Now, obviously, it wasn't where Burke was found, and we found no signs of movement…so this probably wasn't meant for him," Lestrade speculated.

"Right. He also signed 'SH'…if he planned on killing him, he wouldn't give away his name—or initials."

"So, who was it meant for?"

John crossed his arms and shrugged. "There aren't too many possibilities. It was with Burke's stuff, under a combination lock. It was either meant for him or whoever could open the case—"

"The police…" Lestrade concluded for him.

_Of course._

"He wanted the police to find it, have someone open it, _and _solve the cipher. That's us."

"That must have been why he tried to take the case…he wanted to plant the note for us to find."

"You know, we never did find out _why_ he had to leave without taking the case or putting it back with the body."

Lestrade nodded. "No, we didn't. Maybe we can find out tonight."

John lowered his head. "…What?"

"Well, I think we've established that this…note was meant for someone in the loop," he motioned with his hands, referring to the two of them.

John placed his arms on the desk. "You know, that makes sense. He must have planned on me seeing him in the church _before _we found the note."

"Before _you_ found the note," Lestrade stated simply.

"No…no I'm not gonna go."

* * *

It was around 6:30 when Lestrade came back with John's exiguous disguise: a black and white suit and a fake moustache.

"Oh, you're kidding."

"He said to come in disguise."

"Ten pounds _he's _not coming in disguise."

Lestrade held out his hand to shake John's. "You never know with him."

John left to change into the suit, and when he came back, he had to ask Lestrade how to apply the temporary facial hair.

Once he was ready, he drove to Racine with Lestrade, who was going to wait across the street, looking out for any suspicious activity. He would call for back-up if the need should arise. John entered the restaurant inconspicuously. He glanced around to see if Sherlock had already arrived—he was nowhere to be found.

The hostess at the entrance asked for a name, probably to check for a reservation.

"Er—John Watson?"

Her eyes scrolled down the list in front of her. "Yes, Mr. Watson. Right this way." She grabbed two menus before leading him to a table in the far back corner.

* * *

After ordering a glass of wine, John checked his watch: 6:59.

He watched the front of the restaurant, expecting Sherlock to walk in any moment. But he remembered what an episode that would be—a dead man walking in asking for a table.

When he checked his watch again, it was 7 o'clock. As if on cue, he heard footsteps behind him approaching his table. Before John could turn to see who it was, a tall figure entered his peripheral and sat in the seat across from him.

"Hello again," Sherlock said casually.

John gasped inwardly. He knew he was going to see Sherlock, but his tone made him sound unusually normal.

He didn't say anything at first—Sherlock looked nervous, glancing around, his back towards the rest of the dining room. John also noted that he wasn't wearing anything remotely similar to a disguise.

After a few moments, John spoke quietly, "Hello Caesar," but once he said it, he immediately regretted it.

Sherlock seemed slightly taken aback, but responded, "Oh, come now…" he dismissed John's comment with a wave of his hand. "Nice moustache, by the way. But you know, it doesn't match the top of your head…is this a trend that arose in my absence or did you _actually _follow my instructions?"

"Look, I—"

"No, no. It's fine. The fact that you came means that you have trust me, but not enough—Lestrade is stationed outside, but still, you came. Do you want to listen to my story?"

"You already told me."

Sherlock smirked. "John, over the past few days, I've noticed that your deductive skills have improved. I tried to make it obvious to _you_, but not to _them_," he motioned outside.

"Make _what _obvious?"

"I know that this act is a calculated ploy designed by you and Lestrade to get me to tell the truth. But I assure you, I will be truthful regardless."

John sighed. He knew he should feel aggravated, but he had to admit, it was nice to see the real Sherlock again. He held up his hands in surrender.

"Good. Now, since you're here, I know you decoded the cipher after unlocking the case—"

"—you wanted the police to find it, but it would only make sense to someone in the loop," John finished.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm impressed John. My elliptical messages didn't go unnoticed," he smiled, obviously satisfied.

"I'm also convinced that everything you've told me is a lie," John challenged.

Sherlock waited a beat before he answered, "Did you ever figure it out—my death?" he whispered.

John paused. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it.

"Well, that would explain some of it," Sherlock rolled his eyes. Once he finished speaking, he perked his head up, immediately more alert. He stood up and ran in the direction of the kitchen. John considered yelling back, but he didn't want to say his name so conspicuously.

When he turned back, a waiter was pouring more wine in John's glass. "Have you decided on something, sir?"

John had forgotten about dinner. He quickly peered at the open menu in front of him and ordered the first thing he saw. He didn't care, and once the waiter left, he couldn't remember what it was—he just knew that he had to look like a normal customer.

A few moments later, Sherlock returned to the table.

"Sorry. I don't want to be seen."

"You want to borrow my moustache?" John suggested jokingly.

There was a beat of silence, but both of them soon began chuckling.

* * *

Their conversations primarily consisted of back-and-forth prattle, straying from the topic at hand. Such a normal conversation was enough proof for John—Sherlock was not Caesar. But he still needed an explanation.

"Come on, Sherlock. Just tell me. What's going on?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's…complex, to say the least."

"Tell me the truth."

Sherlock placed his hands on the table, but subsequently stood and ran for the kitchen again. A waiter came with plate of…fish, perhaps, with mushrooms on the side, topped with some sort of white sauce.

_This looks refined and repulsive at the same time…_

When the waiter left, John smelled the dish before him, causing him to pull back. Sherlock came back and sat down, keeping his eyes on the food.

"Fillet of sea bass with wild mushrooms and…"he leaned in to smell the white sauce, "beurre blanc."

"I don't even like fish…"

"Then why did you order it?"

"I panicked. I had to order _something_."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No—"

Sherlock picked up the plate from both ends and took it to his side of the table, careful not to knock anything over. He unfolded his napkin and took the silverware.

"You're…eating?" John asked. Based on his previous experiences, Sherlock only ate when it was absolutely imperative—usually in order to simply survive.

"If I am to eat anything, I would prefer seafood, and I happen to be ravenous this evening," he said as he took a bite of the mushrooms. "Oh, these are incredible," he said to himself.

"Alright, now, are you going to tell me?"

Sherlock nodded as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Where shall I begin?"

"You're suicide, perhaps?"

"Right. Well…" he glanced up to a clock on the wall: 7:26. "Another time. I'll start after all that."

"Do you need to be somewhere?"

"Sort of. Now," he continued, turning back to his meal, "I knew that Moriarty's network was growing, and NSY didn't have the competence to _anything_ about it. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Long story short, I decided I had to supersede it from the _inside_."

John held out his hands, "Wait—and you would take—?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No. You know what I mean. Anyway," he said with a mouthful of sea bass, "I had made a pseudo agreement with Moriarty to work with him right after the Game…you know, the bombings?"

"Yeah, I remember…is that why Mycroft sent you the grayanotoxin?"

He nodded. "I was to save it if worse came to worst—like a back-up if the need should arise. Needless to say, it did. But that's beside the point. It wasn't until the case in Dartmoor that I realized I had to go into hiding to complete the operation.

"Moriarty didn't know that I was planning to fake my suicide, and as a result, he thought he solved his problem—long story—and killed himself."

"So Moriarty _is _dead?"

"Yes. After that, his network weakened, falling into chaos without a proper 'leader', so to say. Eventually, Moriarty's right-hand man, Sebastian Moran, stepped up to take his place. But during the time in between, I still kept my façade and pretended to help—in reality, I was accessing confidential files and information that could convict Moriarty _and _Moran. After I did that, I would continue on to the rest of their branches. Unfortunately, Moran discovered that someone was gathering this information and assumed it was being amassed from previous members in retaliation.

"In response, he came to me, asking if I would help him. Still trying to stay in character, I agreed, and together, we created Caesar, who, like I said before, was a ploy to draw the media's attention to Caesar and away from the network.

"John, I had _nothing _to do with the killings. Moran was the one who planned it all and executed them. I was with Delgado, planting evidence and covering Moran's tracks. After Delgado's arrest, Moran, as you know, murdered him, leaving only me. This left more opportunities to communicate with the outside forces, particularly you and Lestrade.

"That was where the envoys came in, the one's I gave the riddle to. I told them that the note was from Moran, who was the one to send them. You're probably also wondering about the question marks. I found the abandoned church with Moran and decided it would be a sort of 'hideout' for Caesar. The graffiti was already there, and I figured they made good landmarks. I couldn't have the envoys see them on the riddle, so I hid them the way I did."

"Why did you write it as a riddle in the first place?" John asked.

"I thought it would be more fun that way," he smirked. "Then, there's our first encounter—you see, Moran was in the corner, hiding in the dark. I had a script I had to recite so all the blame would be on me, not him. All of it was made up, I swear.

"I knew I had to explain to you, so after Moran killed Sean Burke, I went to plant evidence and such. I purposely left a fiber of my coat a drop of unidentifiable blood. I then placed the note in Burke's briefcase—the lock not being difficult to open, as you saw. I knew you would do the same, find it and decode it. And here we are."

John remained silent, taking it all in and trying to make sense of both stories he was told.

"Wow," was all he could say.

"Any questions?" Sherlock asked simply.

"Yeah. The Roman numerals…"

"Oh! Yes…almost forgot. I did that, just to prove to Moran that I was there. He would tell me with part of the body to engrave it on. It wasn't on Delgado's body because he cleaned up the scene himself."

John nodded.

"So, which story do you believe, John?" Sherlock asked, worry apparent in his expression.

"Well, contrary to popular belief, you are _not _a psychopath. You told me that the first day, and again in the church. And a psychopath would not have been so polite in asking for my dinner," he smiled.

"So I'm vindicated?"

"No, not yet…legally, at least. You're still dead, anyway."

"Oh, yes. I suppose that could be a problem…"

Sherlock then passed his finished plate to John and walked away. The waiter came back with his check, which John paid. His plate was taken away just before Sherlock came back.

"Do you always go out in public?"

"I have to survive, don't I? I know a few people—homeless network, mostly—who help me."

"So now what do we do?"

"Repeat everything I said to Lestrade, see how he reacts."

"What are _you_ going to do?"

"I'm going to finish what I started."

"I'll do my best to help," John smiled. He could feel his moustache beginning to peel off.

"Thank you, John…for believing me…"

Even though there wasn't a waiter coming, Sherlock left to the kitchen—and John guessed out the back door— leaving a ten-pound note on the table.

* * *

**Note: The scene is the restaurant is inspired by the scene in the Season 3 teaser trailer (so is the moustache). **

**Racine is also a real restaurant in London, and the sea bass with mushrooms is a real item on their menu:)**


	17. Chapter 17

**A good song to go with this one: The Glitch Mob - "Animus Vox" **

**Chapter 17**

John sat in on the sofa back at Baker Street, his laptop placed on the coffee table. He hadn't updated his blog in a while, and he felt the need to write. But of course, he couldn't. His hands were numb…paralyzed. His lifeless arms fell at his sides, and when he tried to move them, a jolt of pain shot up his spine. His leg started throbbing, and soon he couldn't move it either. He felt his breath slow and heart rate pick up speed. It was cold, or maybe his body temperature was dropping. There was a prickly, pins-and-needles feeling in his hands, but he still couldn't move them.

He heard gunfire outside. The sun suddenly appeared through the window, and the light warmed his paralyzed limbs. Amidst the noise, he could hear men crying out orders as others screamed in pain…maybe fear. He could have sworn he heard someone yelling, "Doctor Watson! Doctor—Doctor Watson!"

When he tried to respond to the call, his leg and left hand reacted with a burning sensation. He cried out, but he couldn't emit sound. The gunfire soon died away, leaving silence once again. But soon enough, he heard footsteps behind him, and a familiar, baritone voice echoed through the flat, slightly muffled by the pounding in John's ears. "What can _you_ do, John? Too much to handle?"

A figure stepped in front of John, who tried to look up, but his neck was stiff and irritated. Sherlock knelt down so he was eye-level with John. His head was soaked in blood, some dripping on his face and clothes. He was in the same state as he was after the Fall.

"Or are you too _afraid_?"

There was one more gunshot, and then everything went black.

* * *

John gasped as he woke up, shivering. He sat up immediately, finding himself in his bedroom. All feeling had returned to his limbs and the pain was gone. It took him few moments to realize that it was a dream.

_Get a grip, John. It was just a dream._

He turned his head to the clock on his nightstand: 6:51 AM.

As he rubbed his eyes, he made his way to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. He leaned on the sink, and when he looked down, he found his left hand shaking slightly. He held it with his right hand, trying to ignore it. As he walked out, he felt a sudden wave of nausea. He stopped to breathe for a minute to calm down.

_That was one hell of a nightmare…_

He left to the kitchen once the wave passed. After making a cup of tea, he sat in his chair, carrying his laptop over. With proper use of his hands, he went to his blog, but he didn't plan on updating it yet. But when he saw the onslaught of comments and feedback, he had no trouble figuring out why. The news must have gotten out about the Caesar investigation, and _someone _had to see John on the scene. He looked through a few and confirmed his theory.

He shook his head.

_They have no idea._

The night before, after leaving Racine, John repeated everything Sherlock had told him to Lestrade. He seemed to be on-board, but he did look a bit skeptical.

Regardless, John was convinced of Sherlock's innocence. Lestrade had said that his conscience was biased because of his previous friendship. John considered this as a possibility, but didn't think much of it until he had the nightmare.

_'Or are you too _afraid_?'_

_I suppose I _am _afraid, Sherlock…but not of what you may think. I'm afraid that I'm wrong about you…I'm afraid that your plan will fail…I'm afraid that Moran will succeed…I'm afraid of what's to happen next. God, I'm bloody terrified. And on top of it, my best friend is back from the dead…_

John realized that he never had much of a reaction to Sherlock's return…

_Was that because I already knew?_

He conducted his own investigation after finding the toxin—

_Sean Burke. He has a file on grayanotoxin. _

_Stop it, John. You need to calm down._

_But it could be important._

His head was spinning.

_'Too much to handle?'_

_…_

_No. _

_Maybe I _am _terrified out of my mind. Maybe I _am _afraid. But I'm not too afraid to back down. I know what needs to be done. This is a war...an Armageddon. I survived one war, and I can survive another—and this has gone on long enough…too many people have died…too many lives have been ruined. Too many…_

_I've overcome so much…in the war…in the investigation…and now, Sherlock, _I _need to finish what _I _started. Caesar isn't getting away with this…and I will do everything in my power to make sure that he's behind bars._

He stood, taking his coat.

_'What can _you _do, John?'_

_No matter how 'god-like' you say you are, Sherlock, you can't do this alone. I'll walk with you on the front lines…and if you go down, we both do. If you die, I'll follow you to the grave this time, but not before I avenge all of the stolen and suffering lives this war has brought. _

_This will end…this Armageddon. And we are going to win._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

John stepped out the door of 221B to find that it was raining. He stood in the doorway, originally overwhelmed with confidence, but now unsure of what to do.

_Where do I start?_

He closed the door from the outside and leaned against it. The small awning above him provided insufficient protection from the rain, but he didn't have a hood or umbrella. The top step to the door was dry, so he sat and placed his feet on the bottom step, his shoes exposed to the elements.

He stayed there for awhile, pondering.

_You can say all those things…but what can you really do?_

The rainfall grew heavier as the temperature dropped. He stared at the clouds above him, trying to focus on one raindrop at a time from the sky all the way to the ground. But everything passed so quickly, and by the time it was at eye-level with him, it was already gone, dissipating on the concrete sidewalks. He held out his hand to catch a raindrop, succeeding in capturing at least seven in his palm. But the weight of one another caused the small puddle to drip out of his hand.

He caught another handful of water and splashed it on his face. The door behind him that was supporting him suddenly gave out, making him fall back slightly. He turned his head to see who had caused the disturbance. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, looking down at John with a sympathetic expression. "Mind if I sit with you?" she asked sweetly.

John nodded and scooted over to let her sit, holder her arm as she did.

"Oh, it's _freezing_," she said, rubbing her hands together, "You'll catch a cold."

John smiled—Mrs. Hudson's motherly persona was always good company.

"Are you going to tell me why you're sitting in the rain, catching pneumonia?"

John exhaled. "The Caesar case…it's—it's just stressful…"

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder. "This is your first case without him, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "No one can ever solve a case like he did."

"Oh, you never know. Maybe _you _can be one of those 'consulting detectives'," she grinned, rather optimistically.

"Right," John said sarcastically.

_I shouldn't tell her about Sherlock, but…_

"If Sherlock were still alive…do you think…"

"What?"

"…Do you think all of those people would have died? Caesar's victims?"

"Well, that's an interesting question," she frowned. "Maybe…maybe not. Do you mean…Sherlock would have solved the case faster?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Ah…no 'buts'. Sherlock wasn't the god he said he was. And neither are you…not that you—sorry."

John laughed. "I know what you mean."

"Anyway…don't be so pessimistic. Every day, you're keeping Caesar at bay, so I'm sure you've already save a few lives without even knowing it. I always like to think about that. You don't always know when you save a life, do you? Lots of incidents could pass you by, and you don't even notice that you made a difference. Don't mope over something you're not in control of…Caesar would have killed those people either way. It's tragic, yes, but it's reality. Sorry to put it bluntly like that—"

John turned to her and smiled. "Reality can be nothing but frank."

"Oh, that reminds me. I need to call Frank, the service technician. My heater's been acting up…I don't know what's wrong with it."

"You want me to look at it?" John offered, feeling much better than before.

* * *

After he fixed Mrs. Hudson's heater (which wasn't too difficult), he decided that he needed to confront Mycroft. He hadn't spoken to him since the initial 'interrogation', as he liked to call it. There were still some questions that were left unanswered.

He tried the Diogenes Club again, careful not to disrupt anything. This time, he knew how to navigate and soon found Mycroft's office. He stood by the doorway before entering.

_'…Are you afraid?'_

_Of your brother? Hell no._

He didn't bother knocking on the door—but when he went to turn the doorknob, it was locked. He tilted his head back.

_Dammit, that would have been cool._

He knocked on the door in defeat, but did his best to make it sound aggressive.

After a few moments, he the door opened. Mycroft stepped aside to let John inside.

"Dr. Watson…I was expect—"

"You knew he was alive?! You knew, and you didn't tell me?!"

Mycroft held out his hands. "Now, now…let's sit down and talk about it, alright?"

"I saw him. _Twice_. _He _obviously didn't mindletting me know he was back from the dead. Were _you _the one you decided to keep me out of the loop?"

"John…you have to understand…Ms. Hooper and I were the only ones to assist in his…suicide. For all intents and purposes, it was better for you to find out on your own."

"But—"

"We helped him, John. He's alive and well. That's all that matters. Now go. I think you have a serial killer to catch," he finished as he sat at his desk.

"No…there _has _to be more to it! Why did you give him the—"

"Like I said, I was _helping _him. It's still raining. Why don't you take my umbrella…you can return it tomorrow…but just leave it on the front steps."

He leaned over slightly to reach his black umbrella and handed it to John.

"I don't need your umbrella. I need answers."

"All of the answers are already in reach. In fact, they're in the palm of your hand…so stop staring at the sun before you go blind," he said enigmatically as he urged for John to take the umbrella. "This will help."

Reluctantly, John took the umbrella. "Thanks."

* * *

John returned to Baker Street, his mettle utterly diminished.

_This started out as such a good day, too…_

Before entering, he shook the umbrella outside and closed it. He kept it with him as he sat down, curious.

_He loves this umbrella. _

John turned it over in his hands. It looked average enough. He set it on the coffee table and went to make a cup of tea. As it was steeping, he glanced at the umbrella and saw something on the ferrule. He walked over to it and examined it. There was a hollow opening at the top of the umbrella, and he assumed it went all the way down the pole. He turned it upside down to see if anything was inside, but nothing fell out—if there _was _anything, it would be fastened somehow.

When the tea was finished, he went back to the umbrella.

_It's _Mycroft's _umbrella, for God's sake…_

He looked for anything along the pole or the runner, but there was nothing out-of-the-ordinary. When he came to the handle—shaped like a cane—he found two subtle rectangular outlines in the wood, one longer than the other. He pressed down on the longer of the two and heard a 'click'. The piece of wood was released, revealing some sort of mechanism underneath.

John set aside the wood and began to probe the apparatus of, what looked like, a rifle.

_You've got to be kidding me…_

Upon further examination, he found a small cylinder containing five small bullets.

_This is insane._

He removed the bullets carefully and set them aside. After he closed the compartment, he tried the other rectangle. But instead of opening another chamber, he heard a louder 'click'. He felt something in the inner workings of the umbrella move, and heard a gust of air coming from the ferrule. It sounded like…air compression.

It was an air rifle…if the bullets had still been inside, it would have fired. The smaller of the buttons was the trigger, and the umbrella itself was the barrel.

_Intense… I never would have thought Mycroft would have access to…_

_…Oh wait…he would…_

So why did he give this to him? It didn't seem that Mycroft was exactly fond of John. Then he remembered his last words:

_'This will help'._

* * *

**I did some intense research on umbrella guns-yes, they ****_actually_**** exist. So I tried to make this as accurate as possible, but I'm not that familiar with firearms :\**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

John decided to keep Mycroft's umbrella in his closet, along with the chessboard. He didn't have a use for it, and he didn't want anyone to see it.

He sat down on the sofa, unsure of what to do. For once, he had nothing on his plate.

_Bored…_

His eyes automatically flicked to the wall beside him—the one Sherlock had spray-painted a yellow face. When he was bored, he would shoot it, and now, it has countless bullet holes in it. He considered trying the umbrella…

_No…I don't want to look like a sociopath, too. Plus, I shouldn't waste the pellets. _

He shifted his legs and arms, trying to find a comfortable position. Perhaps he gained these fidgety characteristics when he was truly, utterly bored. He lay down, replaying random, senseless memories in his head.

Before he continued, he had to think of it all logically. Maybe his past memories would trigger some sort of epiphany. Within minutes, he had fallen asleep.

* * *

John opened his eyes to find himself gazing at London's skyline. A small breeze carried the distant sounds of traffic and other white noise. When he looked down, he saw the busy street below him…nearly five stories below him. He was standing on the rooftop of an eerily familiar building.

As he looked down, he also noticed that his clothes were different—a Belstaff coat, black trousers, and dress shoes. He instinctively went to his pocket and pulled out a cell phone—Sherlock's cell phone. His hands seemed to know what they do, since he dialed a number without much hesitation. On the other end, he heard his own voice.

_Hello?_

And when he spoke, he heard Sherlock's voice.

_John._

_Hey, Sherlock, you okay?_

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now._

_No, I'm coming in._

_Just do as I ask. Please._

_Where?_

_Stop there._

_Sherlock?_

_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop._

_Oh God._

_I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this._

_What's going on?_

He had no idea what he was saying, though the words sounded familiar…

_An apology. It's all true._

_Wh-what?_

_Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty._

_Why are you saying this?_

_… I'm a fake._

Of course. This is that day…

_Sherlock ..._

_The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._

_Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?_

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could._

This is what Sherlock did…this is what he saw, what he said…

_I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick._

_No. All right, stop it now._

_No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move._

_All right._

Why is this happening? What happened?

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?_

_Do what?_

Yes…do what? He never really said, did he…

_This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?_

_Leave a note when?_

_Goodbye, John._

_No. Don't—_

John then felt himself lower the phone from his ear, dropping his phone behind him onto the roof. He then stretched out his arms—like wings—and fell.

The adrenaline rush would have been enough to wake him up from this nightmare, but it didn't. Once he had begun falling, everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, his vision hazy. It was like a portion of time had been completely erased.

He felt a pool of liquid forming around his head and trickling down his face—blood. Through the fog in his eyes, he saw himself walking towards him as a group of strangers huddled around him, checking his pulse. He could feel his heart pounding out of his chest.

Through the crowd of people, he could see himself—no, John—in the street. A cyclist suddenly knocked John over, but instead to staying, the biker rode away. John stayed on the ground for a few moments, trying to gather himself. Based on what he saw, he hit his head fairly hard on the cobblestone.

When he recovered, John started stumbling towards him. He looked shocked…sad…tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

John tried to push his way through the crowd, telling them that he was his friend, to let him through, but they kept pushing him away. He was eventually able to lean down to feel his pulse—nothing.

_But isn't that impossible? I can feel my heart beating…_

As John stood back, the real John fell into darkness once again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

John awoke with a start, and immediately, his hand went to his head, expecting something that wasn't there.

_Just a dream…_

Even for a dream, it was unusual. John, of course, recognized the conversation and subsequent events, but not from that perspective. It was like he had swapped places with Sherlock.

Surprisingly, he remembered it…vividly. The conversation, the jump, the ground…

His only question: why did he switch his point of view? He could have seen it just as well if he had—

_Maybe not…_

Perhaps there was something he missed…something that went unnoticed. He _was _knocked over before he saw the body, and he could remember he hit his head fairly hard. That could have affected his memory from then on. So none of that was of any use, as far as figuring this out.

Before that…the jump. That one moment, the one where everything went black. What happened?

_I never saw him land…_

Something must have happened between the jump and the landing that John never saw. Therefore, it couldn't be part of his subconscious, and thus, it didn't appear in his dream.

Then the landing. It was apparent that Sherlock was still alive, but John couldn't read his pulse. And Sherlock _was _the one on the ground…or was he? John couldn't tell.

This is where the grayanotoxin would make sense. Sherlock could have taken a small dose to appear dead before he jumped. In any case, the landing wouldn't help John now.

What else was there? The phone call? His note?

The phone call's purpose (since he wasn't _actually _going to commit suicide) must have been to set up and prepare his plan to go into hiding. The 'fake genius' bit _was _on purpose. But that couldn't have been it…it was Sherlock…there must have been something more.

He didn't leave much indication as to—

_Oh…wait…the phone…not the phone call…the phone…_

John remembered Sherlock dropping his cell phone right before his jump…right behind him, on the rooftop.

John didn't remember too much about the investigation following Sherlock's death, so called Lestrade.

"_Hello?"_

"Lestrade, it's John—"

"_John! I was hoping you'd call. We haven't made much progress, and there's another victim…"_

"Look, Lestrade, I'd love to help, but I need to figure this out first…could you tell me about the investigation after Sherlock's death?"

"_…Well, there's not much to tell. Very cut-and-dry, plus a lot of witnesses. And with the media on our tails all the time, we tried not to spend too much time on it. Sorry."_

"Did you find any cell phones?"

_"…I don't think so. We heard his suicide note on your phone, not his…come to think of it…I _did_ think it was odd that we didn't find Sherlock's phone…"_

"Thanks. I'll call you later."

* * *

John accessed the rooftop of St. Bart's easily. The hospital had insufficient security—at least enough that a psychotic criminal could enter without being apprehended.

When he opened the door to the roof, he immediately noticed the faded, rusty stain on the concrete.

_Moriarty's blood…_

He stepped around it and stood by the ledge. He cautiously peered over the edge, the one he had seen in his dream. He recognized a few landmarks—the small annex, the sidewalk, the bench. This was definitely where Sherlock jumped.

John turned around and scanned the area. He was hoping he would find Sherlock's cell phone, the one he dropped. It wasn't evidently hidden, so turned back to look over the edge and simulated the events. Without standing on the ledge, he positioned himself in the same vicinity as Sherlock had—John noted that if he were to jump, he would land in front of the annex, and anyone from the street wouldn't see him.

He took out his own cell phone, held it in his right hand, and tossed it behind him, as naturally as possible. As he turned, he heard it scrape the smooth cement slightly, but it glided across the ground more than he thought it would. He followed it as it slid underneath a piece of ductwork connected to a air handler.

John crouched down to find his phone, which wasn't too far out of his reach. But he couldn't see Sherlock's phone. Based on what he saw, the phone had to be somewhere around here.

He realized that he had to take Sherlock's height and position into account. Not only was he standing on a ledge about two feet higher than the ground, but he was at least a head taller than John. He gulped.

He looked over the edge again, and saw that there were only a few people on the sidewalk, and their backs were turned away from him.

_Good. I don't want to make a scene. Let's make this quick._

John, keeping his arms low, stepped up onto the ledge. He crouched for a few moments to gain his balance, and when he was ready, he slowly—very slowly—rose to a standing position. When he tried to keep his eyes closed, it made him dizzy, so he had to force them open.

He couldn't imagine anyone _ever _doing this, even if you chose to. He remembered looking up on that day to see Sherlock, standing on this same ledge.

He shook his head.

_Stay focused._

Carefully, he pulled out his phone again.

_I have to do this exactly as he did…_

He held the phone up to his ear for a second, reenacting the phone call. As he lowered his arm, he tossed the phone behind him, and the right angle…the one he envisioned.

"Stop! Sir, please, stop!" John heard a voice call from below. "Step down…_slowly_. You don't need to do this!" another voice called.

John peered down, startled by the sudden interruption. There was a small crowd forming on the sidewalk, some people crying, some on their phones, some with a panicked expression. A man at the front was calling to him, trying to get him to come down.

_Bloody hell…_

"Look, sorry! Sorry…I wasn't…I'm not…" John tried to explain simply as he stepped down off the ledge. When he did, he heard applause from the group, followed shortly by cheering and words of encouragement.

_I hate this city sometimes…_

He tried to ignore the crowd as he heard them beginning to disperse, but some still remained, probably waiting for him to come down.

As he turned around, John heard one of them call to him, with what sounded like a megaphone: "Sir. Please step away from the edge."

"_Sod off!_"

John waved his hand dismissively and started towards the direction of the phone. A small patch of light reflected off of his own, but it wasn't as far underneath the air handler. He lay down on his stomach and scanned the area. At the intersection of an air duct and the handler, he saw a thin, silver band. He reached for it, and when he pulled it out, he found that it was a black smart phone, identical to Sherlock's.

He turned it on once he stood up, only to find that it was locked by a pass code.

_Four digits…being that it's Sherlock, it's something significant._

He tried to remember any past cases that they had worked on that included four digits.

_Ah…how appropriate…_

John punched in the numbers 1-8-9-5. The code seemed to be correct, and the screen unlocked. He didn't want to examine it yet—he would do that with Lestrade.

Satisfied with his work, he left the rooftop.

* * *

When he walked through the front doors of the hospital, he was greeted by the group of pedestrians he had seen from the rooftop. One of them must have dialed 999, since a police car was parked on the curb. When they saw John, all of them huddled around him, congratulating, blessing, and reprimanding him.

He tried to calm them down, telling them that it wasn't what they thought it was. Amidst the chaos, he saw Lestrade leaning against the police car, shaking his head. John pushed through the crowd and found his way to the curb.

"Lestrade—"

"Stop. Get in the car."

"Lestrade, I wasn't going to—"

"I know. Just get in the car."

Though John was skeptical of Lestrade's intonation, he obeyed. They drove silently to the precinct, after which they entered Lestrade's office.

John pulled out Sherlock's phone from his pocket, "I found Sherlock's phone—"

"There's been another victim."

John sighed. "Yes, you told me."

"It was an officer."

John's brow furrowed. "W-What?"

"An officer was murdered. Same modus operandi—it was definitely Caesar. The investigation has gotten that much more acute. When an officer is killed…well, I'm sure you know…that's a big deal. There's no way Caesar is getting away with this."

"But you _do _realize…"

"That's what's concerning me. That means that one of our own was—"

"…Working with Moriarty at one point," John finished.

"How deep does this go?"

John shrugged. "We may never know."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

"I sent this through forensics...," Lestrade told John, holding up Sherlock's phone. "…myself…"

"And?" John asked anxiously.

"Well, it's definitely Sherlock's. It has an untraceable number…and frankly, that's about it."

John's spirits overtly diminished. He was expecting the phone to lead to Moran somehow.

"But it's not the inner workings of the phone that are of any interest to us," Lestrade continued, a grin beginning to appear on his face. "Some of the conversations on here are…well…you'll see."

John smiled. Without hesitation, he asked Lestrade to let him listen to them. The first was dated two months ago. The first voice they heard from the recording was Sherlock's:

_"Holmes."_

_"Mr. Holmes…I don't believe we've met."_

_"No, but your counterpart has told me enough about you."_

_"Now…let's not start off on the wrong note. I want to meet you in person."_

_"Why?"_

_"I want to discuss this agreement you have with Moriarty."_

_"There isn't anything to discuss. It was a simple concurrence."_

_"That doesn't mean that I should be kept in the dark. Ten o'clock, Racine…I believe you know where it is."_

_"Yes."_

_"Good. Until then, Mr. Holmes."_

_"Until then…Moran."_

A beep indicated that the call ended. John looked up at Lestrade, his eyes widened. "Well then…"

"There's more," Lestrade scrolled through the list of calls, "Listen…"

Once again, the first voice was Sherlock's. It was dated the day before the Fall:

_"Yes?"_

_"Sherlock! Have you solved it yet? Hmm?"_

_"Well…I have a theory. However, I don't think that this is necessary. Aren't tests of intellect mere child's play?"_

_"When it comes to something as important as this, I need to take some extra precautions. By the way, I loved our little tea party today."_

Sherlock sighed irritably. _"Is the deal still on?"_

_"Of course."_

_"Then I want to speak to you again, face to face. Not today…I'm not sure when, yet."_

_"Any time, Sherlock, any time. Why don't you let me know when you want to meet…then we'll talk."_

_"Agreed."_

_"See you when I see you."_

The call ended. John immediately recognized the other voice as Moriarty. But before he could tell Lestrade, he started to play another conversation, this one dated the day of the Fall:

_"I'm on my way now. Are you still in the morgue?"_

_"Yes…I got everyone to leave, like you said."_

John flinched when he heard Molly's voice.

_"Right. Everything is prepared?"_

_"Everything. Ready when you are."_

_"Molly…I—"_

_"It's okay. You don't have to say—"_

_"Thank you."_

_"…"_

_"I'm leaving."_

_"Okay…Just—just be careful. And good luck, I suppose."_

_"I'll try. Goodbye Molly."_

_"Bye."_

John stared at Lestrade with a shocked expression.

"I know…I thought the same thing," Lestrade said, turning off the phone. "The last call he made was the one to you…and I'm sure you already—"

Lestrade didn't feel the need to complete his statement.

"This is incredible…" John mused.

"But you know, I didn't go through the text messages yet…"

John perked up. Lestrade gave him the phone to let him search through his texts. He scrolled through all of the recent ones, and none of them were too conclusive. He stopped at the most recent text, which was a conversation between him and Moran. He read aloud to Lestrade:

_Where are we meeting? – SH_

_Abandoned church. Sidcup. Can't miss it. – SM_

_What about the conference? – SH_

_I can't tell you its location until the day of. – SM_

_I'm considering leaving the country for further investigation. I need to where it is beforehand. – SH_

_Very well. November 10__th__, 9:00 PM. Same church. –SM_

_Thank you. –SH_

_Delete these messages. –SM_

_Of course. –SH_

"November 10th…that's tomorrow," Lestrade thought aloud. "Do you know what this conference thing is?"

"I dunno. But it sounds important."

"What are we gonna do? This doesn't sound like a party that's easy to crash."

"Who says we're gonna go?"

"Well, I just assumed…"


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It was dark—that was all John could gather from his surroundings. He was kneeling down, crouched in a corner. In his hand, he felt a long stick, on which a piece of fabric was attached, but he couldn't see what it was in the darkness.

He didn't know why, but he knew he had to stay quiet. There were voices coming from the other end of the room, though he didn't recognize any of them. In the muddling, enigmatic dream, he couldn't really pay attention or register what they were saying, either.

Then, from the furthest corner, he heard a familiar voice—Sherlock:

"But don't you see? This is why I've come. This is what I've worked with you…why I helped you. I'm sorry, Moran—"

John saw Sherlock's eyes flick in his direction, then back at Moran. "You have lost."

Then, all at once, John stood. He took the stick in his hand and raised it, and when he did, he saw that it was Mycroft's umbrella.

He saw a figure in front of him, but he was faceless—John knew it was Moran. His…umbrella…was still raised, aimed in Moran's direction. In one moment, there was a gunshot, a flash of red, and then, the darkness around him slowly consumed him.

* * *

John awoke suddenly, but he didn't gasp or scream like he usually did. He began to take deep breaths to slow his heart rate and calm him down.

_That's the third nightmare this week. Maybe I should get some help…_

He, of course, quickly dismissed this. He had already tried psychiatrists and therapists, but none of it helped—at least that he would admit.

Suddenly, he heard a loud, irritating buzz coming from his alarm clock. He turned it off quickly, seeing that it was exactly 9:00 AM. He had set an alarm the night before, just to be sure that he made it to his meeting with Lestrade. They wanted to decide what they were going to do about Moran and this 'conference' he was attending. John was against going to it, but at the same time, he was curious.

John was particularly intrigued by the last lines of the text:

_Delete these messages. –SM_

_Of course. –SH_

Even though this conversation took place the day of the Fall, it was finished hours before he 'died'. Why didn't Sherlock delete them?

John assumed that Sherlock _wanted _John to find the phone and the messages. This meant that he probably wanted him to go to the conference as well—even if he didn't want to.

He tried not to think about it on his way to the precinct. When he arrived, Lestrade was at the front entrance, and they hastily entered the DI's office.

"I _really _think we should go," Lestrade began.

"I don't. England's most notorious criminals could be at this conference."

"Exactly! I agree that we should go in there completely helpless, but—"

"Lestrade, this is a _really _bad idea."

"Don't you want to apprehend these guys? Like you said…London's most notorious criminals, loose in the city, all in one place."

"Well…if you're gonna go, you should bring back-up."

"Sherlock's going to be there. Don't you think they'll be a _little _surprised to see him amongst the others?"

John sighed. "Then what do you propose we do?"

"We already know where the church is, how to get in, and where that secret room is. Now, we know that the conference is at 9 o'clock tonight, so if we get there _before _anyone else—"

"We can hide out. But even if we did, what could we do? Eavesdrop?"

"Maybe that's all we'll need to do. They might release information on their whereabouts, and then we'll arrest them one by one once they leave. If worse comes to worst, then we'll be prepared," Lestrade said as he motioned towards his gun.

"How easy do you think it'll be to hide in that room?"

"From what I remember, it was really dark down there, even with the candles. Sherlock also told you that Moran was hiding in the corner when you were down there. I don't think that'll be a problem."

"…You're…optimistic."

"Well…"

John grinned. "Okay, but…we _have _to have some sort of back-up plan."

Lestrade held up his hands, "We run like hell."

* * *

John returned to Baker Street while Lestrade made preparations for their…excursion. He retrieved his gun that he kept in his safe, but when he held it, he suddenly remembered his dream. He specifically remembered holding the umbrella. John turned to the window, and as if on cue, he saw small raindrops rolling down the glass.

_Looks like I'll be needing an umbrella. _

In the end, he decided that it would be the least conspicuous—it was an ordinary object, in case anyone should see it, it didn't have a safety, which would be loud, and, worst-case scenario, if someone were to search him, they wouldn't take his only weapon.

John then realized that it would look slightly ridiculous pointing an umbrella at someone. He laughed, the visual still in his mind as he drove back to the precinct.

* * *

When John entered Lestrade's office, the DI was ending a phone call. When he saw John with the umbrella, he frowned.

"Don't you think that'll be a bit…I dunno…"

"Don't worry. Mycroft gave it to me. It's a gun," John smiled, eager to see Lestrade's reaction. But all he did was roll his eyes.

"If it's a Holmes brother, I won't question it," Lestrade said as he looked at his watch. It was almost 7 o'clock. "The conference is in two hours. I've stationed a few officers in Sidcup, just in case, and they'll be readily available if we need help. I've got my gun. Ready?"

"No."

* * *

**Getting close to the conclusion...:)**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

It didn't take long for John and Lestrade to arrive in Sidcup. They decided to park a several blocks away from the church, just in case anyone was to see them. John, of course, was still reluctant. He had been in some dangerous situations, yes…but nothing of this caliber.

They walked along the pavement, on their way to the church—it was still raining. John had his umbrella while Lestrade had a hooded jacket. The walk was silent as both of them were looking to see if anyone was following them. Before they turned the corner that led to their destination, John stopped them.

"What if one of them sees us before we get a chance to leave?"

"That's why we have these," Lestrade answered, pointing to his gun, but judging by his tone, he said it with hesitation or anxiety.

"It's not that easy…"

"I know."

They continued on, both unsure of how to assure the other. They didn't see any cars around the area, but they were still cautious. John closed his umbrella and held it like a rifle, which made Lestrade laugh silently. Staying in the shadows, they ran across the grass field to the side of the church and made it to the cemetery.

Lestrade pulled out his gun and motioned for John to follow him. They quickly turned the corner and ran up the front steps. The splintered wood panels were in the same state, but the door was unlocked. Lestrade poised his gun, and John followed suit. They each took one side of the double-doors and pushed them open. They entered quickly and scanned the chapel. When they didn't find anything, Lestrade called out.

"This is the police!" his voice echoed throughout the room. John nudged him with a panicked expression, urging him to be quiet. Lestrade then repeated in a whisper, "This is the police!"

John rolled his eyes and started towards the other room. Through each corridor, each room, they briefly searched for any activity, but as they expected, they found none.

Soon, they were climbing down the stairwell leading to the basement, the one in which John had first encountered Sherlock. After the usual routine, they lowered their guns. They were the only ones in the church.

"Now," Lestrade whispered, looking at his watch, "it's almost 8 o'clock. Some of them might be coming soon."

John nodded, and both of them began circling the room, looking for any potential hiding places. As John searched, he felt a sudden surge of nostalgia. He used to play hide-and-seek with Harry.

_Me, holding an umbrella, pretending it's a rifle…that sounds like something the 6-year old John would do. Now we're playing hide-and-seek again, time crunch and everything. But now…it's much, much more critical to stay hidden._

It was an odd thought, John had to admit, but in a way, it made it easier…like all of this was just a game.

_That's the objective…to stay hidden, and don't let them find you._

Lestrade interrupted his thoughts when he stage-whispered for him to come to the other side of the room.

"Look," he said as John walked over, "it's a trunk." John had to squint to see what Lestrade was talking about. He held out his hand and found a smooth, wooden surface. He eventually found the lid, which was heavier than he imagined. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was a fairly large box, big enough to comfortably hide a full-grown person. There were decorative carvings on the side—he felt around inside—that were actually holes, so the person inside wouldn't suffocate. In the dark, John would have never noticed the trunk.

"Now, I realize that this can only fit one person, so…"

"Don't worry. You take it. I'm smaller, so I can probably hide in the corner," John suggested.

"Bad idea," Lestrade said, but before John could argue, they heard a thundering echo coming from upstairs.

Lestrade jumped into the trunk while John ran to the corner. As he heard Lestrade close the lid, he whispered, "Good luck." He thought he heard a response, but the pounding in his ears drowned it out. He felt the adrenaline again, the same he had felt before.

_Like when you're on the edge of a cliff…_

He looked to his left, in the direction of the stairwell. When he did, a black shape blocked his way. He jumped, but he then realized that it was a large, woolen blanket. He grabbed it and quickly draped it over himself.

As if on cue, he heard footsteps descending, getting closer and closer to their location. John held his breath.

* * *

John was truly concealed in the darkness. He chose not to look at the first member, otherwise he could be seen if he's not distracted by another member. But when the footsteps came closer, he could distinguish two sets. Two people were coming at the same time.

When they entered, one of them spoke, "We have an hour before it starts," he said casually, and John noted that it was a Scottish accent. "Are we the first to arrive?"

"I believe so," said the other voice. John took a silent intake of breath when he recognized it as Sherlock's voice.

"Right," the other said. "Let's be sure of this."

After a moment, John heard a scrape, then the combustive flicker of a flame. The unknown man had lit a match. John assumed that he lit one of the candles.

He heard footsteps circling the room.

_Oh God…_

His heart started pounding out of his chest. Based on the movement of the footsteps, he could tell that he would happen upon John before Lestrade. John gripped his umbrella tightly.

The footsteps progressed slowly. It sounded like he was being very meticulous as he searched for anything unusual. When John heard him turn to the side of the room they were hiding, he closed his eyes, as if it would conceal him further.

"Mr. Holmes," the man said curiously, "it seems that you left your coat last you were here."

"Oh, yes. I did. Just leave it. I'll remember it when I leave."

John wondered what he was talking about. He hadn't seen his coat when he came in. Then John realized that the blanket that was hiding him was lined with a satin material. Inconspicuously, he felt around the inside of the blanket, and eventually found a pocket. This was Sherlock's coat.

_Did he…leave it…on purpose?_

John then heard his footsteps continue on to the trunk beside him—Lestrade was still inside.

"Mr. Holmes, my handicap does not allow me to…could you…?" the man asked.

"Of course. However, " Sherlock continued as he walked over to the trunk, "I don't think we need to be so thorough...we _are _the only ones here."

John heard the lid of the trunk open as the other man walked away. John knew that Sherlock must have seen Lestrade, and the lid was quickly closed again. "There's no one here, sir."

"Good."

John peered out of the side of the coat to see the two men, keeping the majority of his face concealed in the dark. Sherlock was lighting a few more candles while the other man sat in a chair around a table. The man was old—white hair, wrinkled face. One of his sleeves seemed to simply hang down lifelessly. It was obvious that he was missing a limb entirely. His only hand was placed on the table, and John immediately noticed that his hand was slightly deformed, particularly with a few fingers missing. It would be difficult to lift the heavy lid on the trunk, but easy enough to light a match with some help.

_Maybe Sherlock came with him on purpose…_

* * *

John listened to their conversation for the next half-hour. There wasn't anything of any interest—mostly mindless prattle. He found this amusing—the other man must work for Moran, and he's talking to Sherlock like he came too early for the party.

It must have been close to 9 o'clock when John heard another set of footsteps descending down the stairwell. He heard chairs glide across the floor as the two men already in the room stood.

"Sir," Sherlock greeted him.

"Mr. Holmes. Mr. Irvine," the third man responded.

The Scottish man—John now knew that his surname was Irvine—sounded like he had pulled the man into an embrace. "Mr. Moran…it's good to see you again," he laughed, like greeting an old friend.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

By 9 o'clock, there were seven people in the room, not including John and Lestrade. Since Moran arrived, there wasn't much chatter. Based on what John heard, he wasn't a people-person.

John figured he was concealed by the dark corner enough to look at the scene. He saw Sherlock, Irvine, and shorter man with a blue neck tie, an older woman in a business suit, and three others, but their backs were turned in John's direction.

Then he noticed that Sherlock was talking to another man, and John assumed that it was Moran. He was tall, maybe in his late forties. He had a black suit and a red neck tie. His dark, grey hair was thin and messy, like it hadn't been cut in awhile. His mouth was curved into a permanent frown, and his eyebrows seemed to drop slightly, resulting in a malevolent stare. Everything about him seemed intimidating.

John couldn't hear what they were talking about, being on the other side of the room. But when they were done, Moran called for everyone to be silent. Within seconds, the 'family reunion' was no more. Everyone was seated in a circle around the table in the center of the room.

"Before we begin, we must address our recent loss," Moran glanced over at Sherlock. "James Moriarty felt that Mr. Holmes had failed his test, and as a result, took his own life. However, after his death, I stepped in, seeing that Mr. Holmes had passed.

"But this isn't what I wanted to discuss. I have informed all of you about Caesar, have I not?"

Everyone around the table nodded.

"There are still fifteen people who need to be eliminated, but I have been unable to find any of them. The seven people in this room represent the whole of England, so I suppose I'll start close to home. It is imperative that we find these fifteen people before any more damage can be done."

"This is quite the proposition," Irvine said.

"Do you want this entire operation to fall into ruin before it can even start?" Moran retorted aggressively.

Irvine seemed to shrink into his chair slightly, but held his head up.

"Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of the situation," Moran said, almost in a whisper. "Moriarty was planning this all along. He was searching for and recruiting the best—isn't _he _why all of you are here today?

"He left us with nothing but one hell of a legacy to uphold. To let it all fall, to let it all fail…it's impossible to even consider."

"Do you think we're idiots?" the older woman challenged. She sounded Welsh. "Of course we understand. But even if we _do _find these fifteen, what good will it do? There will always be more, coming in and out."

"I agree," said the man with the blue tie, "there will always be threats. Maybe these fifteen people are harmless—hell, maybe they're already dead."

"Do you think that anyone…_anyone _with such knowledge, such power could conceal it? These people have information that _I _don't even know of. Information was distributed to Moriarty's closest allies. After he died, these people went berserk—handing it to his worst enemies on a silver platter. These so-called 'loyalists' should not and _cannot _undermine this network."

"I agree with Moran," Sherlock said simply. "This is our only option."

John knew he was lying when his eyes flicked in his direction.

"I second that," said another man, "but how should we go about it? Do you want to continue as Caesar?"

"It depends. If they are all in London, then yes. Caesar has been established as a local serial killer—moving from place to place would make him look like an assassin. This could raise some unwanted suspicion."

"It wasn't difficult to find the first eight. Why are these fifteen different?"

"I'm not sure. My best guess is that they have become aware that someone is after them and have gone into hiding."

There was a beat of silence before Irvine spoke up, "What can we do?"

* * *

John listened intently to the rest of the conversation, but all they discussed was the means of the assassinations. Everyone was given a sector of the British Isles to search. John thought this was ridiculous. He doubted any of the fifteen would stay in Europe. Sherlock seemed to think the same thing as he rolled his eyes on several occasions.

When they were done mapping out the sectors, Moran discussed the details of his forthcoming plan.

"I think it goes saying that these are to be kept underground…do _not _take over the role of Caesar outside of London."

"What if a connection is found between Caesar's victims and one of the fifteen after they've been killed?"

Moran considered this for a minute. Then, with a concerned tone, he said, "We can only pray that they don't."

* * *

Eventually, the conference ended. John guessed that it had been at least two hours.

Everyone left without the farewells John was expecting. Silently, nearly everyone rose and filed up the stairwell. Sherlock and Moran were the only ones left.

Moran seemed surprised that Sherlock stayed behind, "Yes?"

"Sir," his eyes flicked to John for a second, "I don't think you've addressed all of the issues that could potentially arise."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Well, what if these fifteen people aren't in the UK? What if they fled the country, the continent? They could be anywhere in the world."

"It's possible, yes. Why, are you concerned?"

"Yes. I'm concerned that they _are _in fact in England."

Moran gave him a suspicious glare, "Why do you say that?"

"This isn't the only point you neglected to mention," Sherlock continued ignoring Moran. "There is also the time constraint. What if all of them find a way to undermine the network before you can get to them?"

"What are you getting at?"

"There is also the fact that this operation would be _incredibly _easy to infiltrate."

John saw Moran put his hands behind his back.

"Really? How so?"

"How do you know you can trust these people?" Sherlock nodded to the table, referring to the other five. "Just because Moriarty did doesn't mean that you do."

"You seem to know a lot about the flaws in this operation," Moran said. He pulled out something from his back pocket and held it at his side. From John's angle, he couldn't see what it was.

"Care to elaborate?"

"_I _think that practically anyone could infiltrate the network. Tell me…have you ever considered the idea that there are traitors in this room at _this very moment_?"

Moran raised the object he had in his hand and aimed it at Sherlock—a revolver.

"You're not the only one who can deduce, Mr. Holmes."

"Well that's good…I tried to make it obvious."

When John heard the 'click' from Moran's revolver, he grabbed the umbrella, threw off the coat and stood, his gun aimed at Moran.

Both men turned to face John, but Moran kept his gun trained on Sherlock, who was grinning, obviously satisfied by his careful planning. Moran, however, had a bewildered, incredulous expression.

"Is that an _umbrella_?"

* * *

**Okay. Just a couple more chapters. And as for Moran, I envisioned him as Mads Mikkelsen. Just some extra description:)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

"Yes, it's an umbrella," John said irritably, "and it'll blow your face off if you don't put that gun down. Sounds like an honorable death to me."

Moran raised his eyebrows. "Before this gets ugly, may I ask who you are?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock pulled out his gun and aimed it at Moran. "A friend."

Just then, John heard a loud creak coming from behind him. It was Lestrade emerging from the trunk, his gun aimed at Moran as well. "DI Greg Lestrade of NSY. Nice to meet you."

Moran sighed. "You brought the whole infantry."

"Gun. Down. Now." Sherlock demanded. "Or risk death by umbrella."

Moran set his revolver down on the table and held up his hands in surrender.

"This is insane…" he muttered.

"Really? Because—"

"Because two people with guns and one with a bloody umbrella can't take down an entire network of criminal masterminds. Killing me won't make a difference. Someone will always be there to take my place."

"That's kind of hard when they're all in prison," Lestrade said matter-of-factly. He held up a small, black box in his other hand, "We have evidence that all six of you were here, along with locations, plans, and identities."

John saw that it was an audio recorder. Lestrade must have recorded the entire conference. He didn't remember him mentioning—

_Oh. When Sherlock opened the trunk after we got here, he must have given him the recorder._

"This alone can have you arrested," Lestrade continued. "And the best part: you can't kill those fifteen people anymore."

"Wait, wait," Moran laughed. "Do you _actually _think any of those people used their real names? We're not stupid, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and Moran apparently noticed. "What—did you really think that 'Sebastian Moran' is my real name? Hah! That just proves how much you don't actually know."

John spoke up, "If you're so confident in your plan, why'd you put your gun down?"

Moran seemed to consider this, and tried to reach for his gun on the table, but Sherlock quickly pushed it to the other side of the table, allowing John to pick it up.

"I'm not afraid of umbrellas, you know," Moran said to John.

"You should be."

"You know, I'm incredibly curious…care to show me?"

John clenched his teeth. He felt all eyes on him, wondering what he was going to do. He suddenly remembered his dream, the one where he was at the conference and shot Moran. It was like a premonition.

"Well?" Moran asked impatiently.

"No."

"No?"

"I have a theory, and I want to know if I'm right."

"Do you?"

"You say that your name isn't really Moran…right?"

"Does the name 'Richard Brooks' ring any bells?"

Moran was overtly taken aback by John's hypothesis.

"I originally thought it was Moriarty's real name, but it's really _yours_, isn't it?

"How could you possibly know that?"

"It kind of makes sense when you think about it. 'James Moriarty' was his real name, but he used yours as his alias. Then you used 'Sebastian Moran' as _your _alias.

"You didn't want any of the blame to be on you—this was apparent when you made Sherlock and Delgado clean up for you as Caesar, and when Sherlock had to confess to me that he was the murderer. You scrambled up the names enough that Richard Brooks didn't exist anymore. If anyone were ever to catch you, they wouldn't know who you really are, because Sebastian Moran or James Moriarty would take the blame, not Richard Brooks. You just want to save your own skin."

Brooks shrugged, "It's a tough business."

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Honestly, I can't believe it took you so long."

"Were you the one who was behind everything, even while Moriarty was still alive?"

"You could say that _he_ was my right-hand man, not the other way around."

"Save the confessions for later. Richard Brooks, you're under arrest—"

But Moran avoided Lestrade when he started towards him and punched Sherlock in the stomach. Lestrade and John ran for him as he made his way to the stairwell. Sherlock had to catch his breath before he followed the pursuit.

When all three of them came out from the tapestry covering the entrance to the basement, they couldn't find Brooks. They split up, taking nearly all of the corners of the church. Lestrade called for his precautionary back-up, telling them that there was a fugitive somewhere in Sidcup.

Once they had searched the entire church and the surrounding fields, they gave up. Brooks was gone.

* * *

"Well, I wouldn't call it a 'failure'," Lestrade said as the three of them sat on the front steps of the church. "We got a lot of evidence."

"I know you're trying to be a positive thinker, Lestrade, but there is a dangerous criminal on the loose, and none of that will make a difference unless we have him in custody," Sherlock reminded him.

Lestrade held up his hands in mock surrender, "Sor-ry."

Within minutes, they heard sirens coming from all directions, and eventually, the red and blue lights of police cars were lining the curb in front of the church.

"Oh…I didn't take this into account…" Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"To everyone else, I'm still dead."

When the first officers came to the front steps and saw Sherlock, they only stood there, gaping.

"Yes, yes. I'm not dead. It's miraculous, I know."

* * *

The police were unable to located Brooks, but they were given sufficient information to continue the search.

As for Caesar, NSY lied to the media, saying that they had apprehended a suspect, but in a violent outburst upon arrest, were forced to shoot the suspect. His identity was never revealed.

Sherlock explained that Sean Burke had a file on grayanotoxin in his briefcase because he helped Mycroft find the toxin. He had to assume that he forgot to remove the file or throw it away.

John then asked about the chessboard. Sherlock didn't have much to say about it, though. But when John asked what its 'secret' that Mycroft had talked about was, he didn't know.

Finally, there was Sherlock's 'death'. He refused to give a lengthy explanation, but John gathered that it involved Mycroft and Molly. He must have found a way to safely land without suffering any injuries, and used the grayanotoxin to appear dead. The cyclist was also involved: when John hit his head, he couldn't see what was really going on. The body in the coffin couldn't have been him.

"So…who was really in your coffin, when they buried you?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock answered simply.

* * *

"Looks like this war isn't over," John said as they drove back to Baker Street.

"No. But that doesn't mean it never will be."

"How do you think we'll do it?"

Sherlock thought about this, "What do you think?"

"I think we need to track down these fifteen people. They might have some useful information. We also need to protect them—Moran…er…Brooks…is still out there."

"Yes…you're right. You know, I am _truly _impressed, John. With everything. Well done."

"You didn't do too bad yourself."

Sherlock smiled. "Now, there's one more obstacle we must overcome."

"Telling the world you're not dead?"

"No…telling _Mrs. Hudson_."

John realized that they were on their way to Baker Street.

"Oh God…"

* * *

When they arrived on the front steps of 221B, Sherlock stopped to take a breath. "I'm home," he muttered to himself.

Sherlock immediately went to see Mrs. Hudson. From outside her door, they could hear that she was washing the dishes. John was against it, but Sherlock wanted to just walk in and surprise her, while John thought it would give her a heart attack.

In a sense, he was right. When she first saw him, she screamed, shaking her head, yelling that she's seen a ghost. Eventually, John was able to calm her down and explain. When he stopped screaming, she was left with tears in her eyes.

She approached Sherlock slowly, who was smiling, happy to see his landlady again. Once she was sure that it was really him, she hugged him, while telling him how horrible he was for doing this to her.

John thought it was nice to see the three of them together again, even if it had only been two weeks.

_Only two weeks…_

So much had happened, but now, things were back to normal (for the most part).

They said goodnight to Mrs. Hudson, who was still crying. Sherlock had to admit that he was happy to be back at Baker Street. And frankly, so was John. His best friend was alive and well. He's not a serial killer, he's not a double-agent, and he won't be London's most notorious con artist for much longer.

Sherlock Holmes was back.

* * *

**Epilogue is on its way!:D**


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_-One Week Later-_

"John?"

"Yes?"

"What does '#SherlockLives' mean?"

As John began to laugh, Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, "I've seen it all over the Internet ever since I've come back, and I just don't know what it means."

"It's—" John started, but he couldn't continue through his laughter.

"Right…if you won't tell me, I'll ask someone else," he said as he pulled out his phone. Sherlock then noticed that John was getting ready to leave, as he put his coat on over a fairly formal suit.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, uh, during the investigation, I promised Lestrade that we would go see Shakespeare's 'Julius Caesar'. Want to come? You get your ticket at the entrance."

Sherlock shrugged. "No thanks."

"If you come, I'll tell you what '#SherlockLives' means."

Sherlock perked up at this. "'Hashtag'? Isn't that a pound symbol?"

"I'll explain after the play. Now come on, it starts in half an hour."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got his coat.

* * *

"Is this your sister's car?" Sherlock asked on the way to the theatre.

"Yeah. Now that you mention it, I should probably give it back."

"I don't think you should…I like having a car."

John sighed. "If you want to get a car, then get a bloody car."

Before he could respond, Sherlock's phone beeped, signaling a new text. It was Mycroft.

_I see you're back. I have a case for you. – MH_

_Not now. I need to focus on Brooks. –SH_

_This is of upmost importance. And it could potentially lead to Brooks. –MH_

_Fine. What is it? – SH_

_It requires you to travel abroad. –MH_

_I'm not really in the mood for a vacation. –SH_

_How does America sound? – MH_

* * *

**And so, "Side of Angels" reaches its conclusion. **

**But, this is only the first part of a longer series of works, all taking place in the same universe, and will follow the same plot that's introduced in SOTA. By the time more works are written, Series 3 will be released. Depending on what happens, I may or may not conform to its plot...we'll have to see. **

**As you can see, the epilogue hints at the next story...;)**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this first installment..."Side of the Angels" *wipes forehead***

**~Pindergast**


	27. Vellum & Morocco (Sequel) Sneak Peek

**Vellum and Morocco**

**Chapter 1**

_"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."_

_-Winston Churchill_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes snaked his way through the seemingly endless rows of luggage and suitcases, all being somewhat moderated by their owners. There were many instances in which his own bag was knocked to the floor by an ignorant passenger, causing both participants to glare at each other. After much careful maneuvering, he found his designated seat, and John Watson followed him.

"You would think—" John tried to speak, but lost his balance as he tried to store their bags in the upper compartment, "You would think, that after all of this, your brother would have gotten us a better…" he motioned to the rest of the cramped plane, "…arrangement."

"I agree that this is utterly proletarian, but it was last-minute."

"First class would have been nice."

"He's punishing us—well, me."

"I think he's just happy that you agreed to all of this."

"The fact that this was a nine was the only reason I did."

John sighed. "Eight hours on a plane," he drawled.

"And we land in America—hardly any consolation."

* * *

Sherlock thought back to the day before, when Mycroft told him about the case in America. It had been nearly a week after Sherlock came back from the dead, but that didn't stop Mycroft. He called him in the morning after he texted his brother. Sherlock entered his office with obvious irritation.

"I've only been back for one week, and here you expect me to take on a case, just like that?"

"Oh, stop. I know that after a week of twiddling your thumbs—"

"And in America, of all places…you think that that's going to incline me to go?"

"Don't be so hasty. Why don't you listen to what I have to say?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. He wasn't in the mood to argue, so he sat in a chair opposite of Mycroft with no intention of listening.

"As you know, I have connections all over the world," he began. Sherlock scoffed.

Ignoring him, Mycroft continued, "You don't keep up with world news, do you?"

"I try to avoid it."

"Sacramento, California…heard of it?"

"Sounds familiar. Mycroft, really, I _don't care_."

"The city has seen a recent increase in homicides. The police are nearly positive that it's a serial killer."

Sherlock perked up, but immediately turned his head, trying to appear indifferent.

"Sacramento is the capital of California, and the governor, Walter Hale, has asked for _your _assistance."

"What?"

"One of his dear friends was a victim of these crimes, and he wants to apprehend whoever is responsible."

Sherlock pondered this. "Why me?"

Mycroft laughed, "Your indifference is amusing, Sherlock, but you must have noticed a change in the way the media treats you...and the public, at that. America has gotten word of the brilliant detective who faked his own suicide here in London. News spreads quickly."

"So, the governor wants me to take the case…tell him I'm _flattered_, but I'm busy," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Do you realize how important this is?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, "The _governor of California_ is asking for _your _help. You really shouldn't be hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating…I'm refusing."

"Is this because you don't want to go to America?"

Sherlock paused, studying his brother's incredulity, "I will admit, it's not much motivation."

Just then, the door behind them opened, and John entered. After closing it behind him, he looked at the scene, his brow furrowed.

"I got here as fast I could," he sounded out of breath.

"There was no need to rush, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said casually.

John walked forward and stood behind Sherlock, "Sherlock—he said there was an emergency…"

"Yes. My brother is shipping me off to America."

John grinned slightly, "What, really?"

"I've offered Sherlock a case in California—a serial killer—but he has refused," Mycroft said, still looking at Sherlock. "I'm assuming you asked John to come to convince _me _that you can't go."

"A trip to America?" John mused. "I'm in."

"What?" Sherlock turned to face him. "Why?"

"Sounds like fun. Beside the fact that…you know," he coughed, "…people have…died…"

"Don't encourage Mycroft, John," Sherlock said, "I'm not going."

"Would you like some incentive?"

"I don't need it, no."

Mycroft pulled out a few files from his desk drawer and read them aloud.

"First victim, Ronald Griffin, 54, was killed one week ago. His body was found on the railroad tracks…stabbed 12 times."

Sherlock nodded, "Are you trying to make this sound intriguing?"

"Second victim, Freda Cain, 79, was killed a few days ago. Found in her home with a horrendous wound in the back of the head."

John cringed.

"Third victim—"

"How do they even know that these are serial killings?"

"Third victim," Mycroft continued, ignoring him, "Allan Carr, 46. Found on the shore of the Sacramento River. Drowned…witnesses say that he was fishing."

"Mycroft…_how do they know what these are_?"

His brother looked up from the papers. He then pulled out another stack of paper from his drawer and handed them to Sherlock. "These were found at each crime scene."

Sherlock scanned the photos quickly and handed them to John. "Coincidence."

John rifled through the photos, "Sherlock, these don't look—"

"Coincidence," he demanded.

"These were at three different scenes. They are, without a doubt, connected."

Sherlock peered at the photos again. Each photo was of the victim's hand, clutching a piece of paper.

"What was on the paper?"

"All of them were different. The man on the railroad's said '42'. The old woman's said '77'. The man in the river's said '565'. They're not sure how the numbers are connected."

Sherlock nodded. He had to admit that it was strange. "Even if it's a serial killer, the MOs don't match."

"And here's, perhaps, the strangest part. Everyone who found the bodies noted that they remembered the distinct smell of leather at each scene. 'Dusty and old', some said. I should also note that all of the bodies were found not long after they were killed…any ideas?"

"Three."

"Then what do say?"

Sherlock sighed. John slapped him on the back, "Come on. America isn't _that _bad. And this case sounds right up your alley."

"Have you ever been to America?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

"Have you been there?"

"…No."

"Then you shouldn't speak from experience."

After much negotiation, John and Mycroft convinced the reluctant Sherlock to take the case. They made arrangements to leave that night. Sherlock and John then went back to Baker Street to pack.

"I can't believe we're going…" Sherlock droned morosely.

"Try to be a little optimistic, will you? Maybe it'll be fun."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't hold too much hope."

* * *

John looked out the window as the London skyline disappeared behind them. They didn't know how long they would stay in California—it depended on how the case progressed. They planned on at least one week.

He saw Sherlock going over the case information that Mycroft had given him. Both of them wouldn't admit that they had no idea what was going on. Sherlock didn't have three theories. He was lucky to have one.

_This will certainly be blog-worthy. _


End file.
